sS" 


SHORTY  McCABE 


She  was  a  dream,  all  right. 


Shorty  McCabe 

By 

Sewell  Ford 

>f 

Author  of  HORSES  NINE 


Illustrated  by 
Francis  Vaux  Wilson 


NEW  YORK 
MITCHELL  KENNERLEY 


Copyright ,  1906,  by  Mitchell  Kenneney 


The  Publishers'  Printing  Company,  Lafayette  Place,  New  York 


SHORTY  MeCABE 

CHAPTER  I 

EXCUSE  me,  mister  man,  but  ain't  you — Hello, 
yourself!  Blamed  if  I  didn't  think  there  was 
somethin'  kind  of  natural  about  the  looks,  as  you 
come  pikin'  by.  How're  they  runnin',  eh? 

Well  say,  I  ain't  seen  you  since  we  used  to  hit 
up  the  grammar  school  together.  You've  seen 
me,  eh?  Oh,  sure!  I'd  forgot.  That  was  when 
you  showed  up  at  the  old  Athletic  club  the  night 
I  got  the  belt  away  from  the  Kid.  Doin'  sportin' 
news  then,  wa'n't  you?  Chucked  all  that  now,  I 
s'pose? 

Oh,  I've  kept  track  of  you,  all  right.  Every 
time  I  sees  one  of  your  pieces  in  the  magazines  I 
reads  it.  And  say,  some  of  'em's  kind  of  punk. 
But  then,  you've  got  to  sling  out  somethin'  or 
other,  I  expect,  or  get  off  the  job.  Where  do  you 
dig  up  all  of  them  yarns,  anyway?  That's  what 
always  sticks  me.  You  must  knock  around  a 
whole  bunch,  and  have  lots  happen  to  you.  Me? 
Ah,  nothin'  ever  happens  to  me.  Course,  I'm 
^generally  on  the  move,  but  it's  just  along  the 
grub  track,  and  that  ain't  excitin'. 

Yes,  it's  been  a  couple  of  years  since  I  quit  the 


912746 


8  SHORTY  McCABE 

ring.  Why1}  Say,  don't  ever  put  that  up  to  a 
htas-bfc@fu.; .  It's;  ;almt)s.t.  as*  bad  as  compoundin'  a 
felony.  I  could  give  you  a  whole  raft  of  reasons 
that  would  sound  well,  but  there's  only  one  that 
covers  the  case.  There's  a  knockout  comin'  to 
the  best  of  'em,  if  they  hang  to  the  game  long 
enough.  Some  ain't  satisfied,  even  after  two  or 
three.  I  was.  I  got  mine,  clean  and  square,  and 
I  ain't  ashamed  of  it.  I  didn't  raise  any  holler 
about  a  chance  shot,  and  I  didn't  go  exhibitin' 
myself  on  the  stage.  I  slid  into  a  quiet  corner 
for  a  month  or  so,  and  then  I  dropped  into  the 
only  thing  I  knew  how  to  do,  trainin'  comers  to 
go  against  the  champs.  It  ain't  like  pullin' 
down  your  sixty  per  cent  of  the  gate  receipts, 
but  there's  worse  payin'  jobs. 

Course,  there's  times  when  I  finds  myself  up 
against  it.  It  was  durin'  one  of  them  squeezes, 
not  so  long  ago,  that  I  gets  mixed  up  with  Leonidas 
Dodge,  and  all  that  foolishness.  Ah,  it  wa'n't 
anything  worth  wastin'  breath  over.  You  would? 
Honest?  Well,  it  won't  take  long,  I  guess. 

You  see,  just  as  my  wad  looks  like  it  had  shrunk 
so  that  it  would  rattle  around  in  a  napkin  ring, 
someone  passes  me  the  word  that  Butterfly  was 
down  to  win  the  third  race,  at  15  to  1.  Now  as 
a  general  thing  I  don't  monkey  with  the  ponies, 
but  when  I  figured  up  what  a  few  saw-bucks 


SHORTY  McCABE  9 

would  do  for  me  at  those  odds,  I  makes  for  the 
track  and  takes  the  high  dive.  After  it  was  all 
over  and  I  was  comin'  back  in  the  train,  with 
only  a  ticket  where  my  roll  had  been,  me  feelin' 
about  as  gay  as  a  Zulu  on  a  cake  of  ice,  along 
comes  this  Mr.  Dodge,  that  I  didn't  know  from 
next  Tuesday  week. 

"Is  it  as  bad  as  that?"  says  he,  sizin'  up  the 
woe  on  my  face.  "Because  if  it  is  they  ought  to 
give  you  a  pension.  What  was  the  horse?" 

"  Butterfly,"  says  I.    "  Now  laugh ! " 

"I've  got  a  right  to,"  says  he.  "I  had  the 
same  dope." 

Well,  you  see,  that  made  us  almost  second  cous- 
ins by  marriage  and  we  started  to  get  acquainted. 
I  looked  him  over  careful  but  I  couldn't 
place  him  within  a  mile.  He  had  points  enough, 
too.  The  silk  hat  was  a  veteran,  the  Prince 
Albert  dated  back  about  four  seasons,  but 
the  gray  gaiters  were  down  to  the  minute.  Being 
an  easy  talker,  he  might  have  been  a  book  agent 
or  a  green  goods  distributor.  But  somehow  his 
eyes  didn't  seem  shifty  enough  for  a  crook,  and 
no  con.  man  would  have  lasted  long  wearing  the 
kind  of  hair  that  he  did.  It  was  a  sort  of  lemon 
yellow,  and  he  had  a  lip  decoration  about  two 
shades  lighter,  taggin'  him  as  plain  as  an  "in- 
spected" label  on  a  tin  trunk. 


io  SHORTY  McCABE 

"I'm  a  mitt  juggler,"  says  I,  "and  they  call 
me  Shorty  McCabe.  What's  your  line?" 

"I've  heard  of  you,"  he  says.  "Permit  me/' 
and  he  hands  out  a  pasteboard  that  read: 

LEONIDAS   MACKLIN   DODGE 

Oommissioner-at-Large 

"For  what?  "says  I. 

"It  all  depends,"  says  Mr.  Dodge.  "Some- 
times I  call  it  a  brass  polisher,  then  again  it's  a 
tooth-paste.  It  works  well  either  way.  Also  it 
cleans  silver,  removes  grease  spots,  and  can  be 
used  for  a  shaving  soap.  It  is  a  product  of  my 
own  lab'ratory,  none  genuine  without  the  sig- 
nature." 

"How  does  it  go  as  a  substitute  for  beef  and?" 
says  I. 

"I've  never  quite  come  to  that,"  says  he,  "but 
I'm  as  close  now  as  it's  comfortable  to  be.  My 
gold  reserve  counts  up  about  a  dollar  thirty- 
nine." 

"You've  got  me  beat  by  a  whole  dollar,"  says  I. 

"Then,"  says  he,  "you'd  better  let  me  under- 
write your  next  issue." 

"There's  a  friend  of  mine  up  to  Forty-second 
Street  that  ought  to  be  good  for  fifty,"  says  I. 

"I've  had  lots  of  friendships,  off  and  on,"  says 
he,  "but  never  one  that  I  could  cash  in  at  a 
pinch.  I'll  stay  by  until  you  try  your  touch." 


SHORTY  McCABE  11 

Well,  the  Forty-second  Street  man  had  been 
gone  a  month.  There  was  others  I  might  have 
tried,  but  I  didn't  like  to  risk  gettin'  my  fingers 
frost-bitten.  So  I  hooks  up  with  Leonidas  and 
we  goes  out  with  a  grip  full  of  Electro-Polisho, 
hittin'  the  places  where  they  had  nickel-plated 
signs  and  brass  hand  rails.  And  say!  I  could 
starve  to  death  doing  that.  Give  me  a  week  and 
two  pairs  of  shoes  and  I  might  sell  a  box  or  so; 
but  Dodge,  he  takes  an  hour  to  work  his  side  of 
the  block  and  shakes  out  a  fist  full  of  quarters. 

"It's  an  art,"  says  he,  " which  one  must  be  born 
to.  After  this  you  carry  the  grip." 

That's  the  part  I  was  playin'  when  we  strikes 
the  Tuscarora.  Sounds  like  a  parlor  car,  don't  it? 
But  it  was  just  one  of  those  swell  bachelor  joints 
— fourteen  stories,  electric  elevators,  suites  of 
two  and  three  rooms,  for  gents  only.  Course, 
we  hadn't  no  more  call  to  go  there  than  to  the 
Stock  Exchange,  but  Leonidas  Macklin,  he's  one 
of  the  kind  that  don't  wait  for  cards.  Seein'  the 
front  door  open  and  a  crowd  of  men  in  the  hall, 
he  blazes  right  in,  silk  hat  on  the  back  of  his  head, 
hands  in  his  pockets,  and  me  close  behind  with 
the  bag. 

" What's  up;  auction,  row  or  accident?"  says 
he  to  one  of  the  mob. 

Now  if  it  had  been  me  that  butted  in  like  that 


12  SHORTY  McCABE 

I'd  had  a  row  on  my  hands  in  about  two  minutes, 
but  in  less  time  than  that  Leonidas  knows  the 
whole  story  and  is  right  to  home.  Taking  me 
behind  a  hand-made  palm,  he  puts  me  next. 
Seems  that  some  one  had  advertised  in  a  mornin' 
paper  for  a  refined,  high-browed  person  to  help 
one  of  the  same  kind  kill  time  at  a  big  salary. 

"And  look  what  he  gets/'  says  Leonidas,  wavin' 
his  hand  at  the  push.  "  There's  more'n  a  hundred 
of  'em,  and  not  more'n  a  dozen  that  you  couldn't 
trace  back  to  a  Mills  hotel.  They've  been  jawing 
away  for  an  hour,  trying  to  settle  who  gets  the 
cinch.  The  chap  who  did  the  advertising  is  inside 
there,  in  the  middle  of  that  bunch,  and  I  reckon  he 
wishes  he  hadn't.  As  an  act  of  charity,  Shorty,  I'm 
going  to  straighten  things  out  for  him.  Come  on." 

"Better  call  up  the  reserves,"  says  I. 

But  that  wa'n't  Mr.  Dodge's  style.  Side- 
steppin'  around  to  the  off  edge  of  the  crowd, 
just  as  if  he'd  come  down  from  the  elevator,  he 
calls  out  good  and  loud:  "Now  then,  gentlemen; 
one  side,  please,  one  side!  Ah,  thank  you!  In  a 
moment,  now,  gentlemen,  we'll  get  down  to 
business." 

And  say,  they  opened  up  for  us  like  it  was  pay 
day  and  he  had  the  cash  box.  We  brought  up 
before  the  saddest-lookin'  cuss  I  ever  saw  out  of 
bed.  I  couldn't  make  out  whether  he  was  sick, 


SHORTY  McCABE  13 

or  scared,  or  both.  He  had  flopped  in  a  big  leather 
chair  and  was  tryin'  to  wave  'em  away  with  both 
hands,  while  about  two  dozen,  lookin'  like  ex-bath 
rubbers  or  men  nurses,  were  telling  him  how  good 
they  were  and  shovin'  references  at  him.  The 
rest  of  the  gang  was  trying  to  push  in  for  their 
whack.  It  was  a  bad  mess,  but  Leonidas  wasn't 
feazed  a  bit. 

"  Attention,  gentlemen ! "  says  he.  "  If  you  will 
all  retire  to  the  room  on  the  left  we  will  get  to  work. 
The  room  on  the  left,  gentlemen,  on  the  left!" 

He  had  a  good  voice,  Leonidas  did,  one  of  the 
kind  that  could  go  against  a  merry-go-round  or 
a  German  band.  The  crowd  stopped  pushin'  to 
listen,  then  some  one  made  a  break  for  the  next 
room,  and  in  less  than  a  minute  they  were  all  in 
there,  with  the  door  shut  between.  Mr.  Dodge 
tips  me  the  wink  and  sails  over  to  the  specimen  in 
the  chair. 

"You're  Mr.  Homer  Fales,  I  take  it,"  says  he. 

"I  am,"  says  the  pale  one,  breathing  hard,  "and 
who — who  the  devil  are  you?" 

''That's  neither  here  nor  there,"  says  Leonidas. 
"Just  now  I'm  a  life-boat.  Do  you  want  to 
hire  any  of  those  fellows?  If  so — " 

"No,  no,  no!"  says  Homer,  shakin'  as  if  he  had 
a  chill.  "Send  them  all  away,  will  you?  They 
have  nearly  killed  me." 


14  SHORTY  McCABE 

"Away  they  go,"  says  Leonidas.  "Watch  me 
do  it." 

First  he  has  me  go  in  with  his  hat  and  collect 
their  cards.  Then  I  calls  'em  out,  one  by  one, 
while  he  stands  by  to  give  each  one  the  long-lost 
brother  grip,  and  whisper  in  his  ear,  as  confidential 
as  if  he  was  telling  him  how  he'd  won  the  piano  at 
a  church  raffle:  "Don't  say  a  word;  to-morrow 
at  ten."  They  all  got  the  same,  even  to  the 
Hickey-boy  shoulder  pat  as  he  passed  'em  out, 
and  every  last  one  of  'em  faded  away  trying  to 
keep  from  lookin'  tickled  to  death.  It  took 
twenty  minutes  by  the  watch. 

"Now,  Mr.  Fales,"  says  Leonidas,  comin'  to 
a  parade  rest  in  front  of  the  chair,  "next  time  you 
want  to  play  Santa  Glaus  to  the  unemployed  I'd 
advise  you  to  hire  Madison  Square  Garden  to 
receive  in." 

That  seemed  to  put  a  little  life  into  Homer. 
He  hitched  himself  up  off  'n  the  middle  of  his  back- 
bone, pulled  in  a  yard  or  two  of  long  legs  and  pried 
his  eyes  open.  You  couldn't  call  him  handsome 
and  prove  it.  He  had  one  of  those  long,  two-by- 
four  faces,  with  more  nose  than  chin,  and  a  pair 
of  inset  eyes  that  seemed  built  to  look  for  grief. 
The  corners  of  his  mouth  were  sagged,  and  his 
complexion  made  you  think  of  cheese  pie.  But 
he  was  still  alive. 


SHORTY  McCABE  15 

"You've  overlooked  one,"  says  he,  and  points 
my  way.  "He  wouldn't  do  at  all.  Send  him  off, 
too." 

"That's  where  you're  wrong,  Mr.  Fales,"  says 
Leonidas.  "This  gentleman  is  a  wholly  disin- 
terested party,  and  he's  a  particular  friend  of  mine. 
Professor  McCabe,  let  me  introduce  Mr.  Homer 
Fales." 

So  I  came  to  the  front  and  gave  Homer's  flipper 
a  little  squeeze  that  must  have  done  him  as  much 
good  as  an  electric  treatment,  by  the  way  he 
squirmed. 

"  If  you  ever  feel  ambitious  for  a  little  six-ounce 
glove  exercise,"  says  I,  "just  let  me  know." 

"  Thanks,"  says  he,  "  thanks  very  much.  But  I'm 
an  invalid,  you  see.  In  fact,  I'm  a  very  sick  man." 

"About  three  rounds  a  day  would  put  you  on 
your  feet,"  says  I.  "  There's  nothing  like  it." 

He  kind  of  shuddered  and  turned  to  Leonidas. 
"You  are  certain  that  those  men  will  not  return, 
are  you?"  says  he. 

"Not  before  to-morrow  at  ten.  You  can  be 
out  then,  you  know,"  says  Mr.  Dodge. 

"To-morrow  at  ten!"  says  Homer,  and  slumps 
again,  all  in  a  heap.  "Oh,  this  is  awful!"  he 
groans.  "I  couldn't  survive  another!" 

It  was  the  worst  case  of  funk  I  ever  saw.  We 
put  in  an  hour  trying  to  brace  him  up,  but  not 


16  SHORTY  McCABE 

until  we'd  promised  to  stay  by  over  night  could 
we  get  him  to  breathe  deep.  Then  he  was  as 
grateful  as  if  we'd  pulled  him  out  of  the  river. 
We  half  lugs  him  over  to  the  elevator  and  takes 
him  up  to  his  quarters.  It  wasn't  any  cheap 
hang-out,  either — nothing  but  silk  rugs  on  the 
floor  and  parlor  furniture  all  over  the  shop.  We 
had  dinner  served  up  there,  and  it  was  a  feed  to 
dream  about — oysters,  ruddy  duck,  filly  of  beef 
with  mushrooms,  and  all  the  frills — while  Homer 
worries  along  on  a  few  toasted  crackers  and  a  cup 
of  weak  tea. 

As  Leonidas  and  me  does  the  anti-famine  act 
Homer  unloads  his  hard-luck  wheeze.  He  was 
the  best  example  of  an  all-round  invalid  I  ever 
stacked  up  against.  He  didn't  go  in  for  no  half- 
way business;  it  was  neck  or  nothing  with  him. 
He  wasn't  on  the  hospital  list  one  day  and  bumping 
the  bumps  the  next.  He  was  what  you  might 
call  a  consistent  sufferer. 

"It's  my  heart  mostly,"  says  he.  "I  think 
there's  a  leak  in  one  of  the  valves.  The  doctors 
lay  it  to  nerves,  some  of  them,  but  I'm  certain 
about  the  leak." 

"Why  not  call  in  a  plumber?"  says  I. 

But  you  couldn't  chirk  him  up  that  way.  He'd 
believed  in  that  leaky  heart  of  his  for  years.  It 
was  his  stock  in  trade.  As  near  as  I  could  make 


SHORTY  McCABE  17 

out  he'd  began  being  an  invalid  about  the  time 
he  should  have  been  hunting  a  job,  and  he'd  always 
had  some  one  to  back  him  up  in  it  until  about  two 
months  before  we  met  him.  First  it  was  his 
mother,  and  when  she  gave  out  his  old  maid  sister 
took  her  turn.  Her  name  was  Joyphena.  He 
told  us  all  about  her;  how  she  used  to  fan  him 
when  he  was  hot,  wrap  him  up  when  he  was  cold, 
and  read  to  him  when  she  couldn't  think  of  any- 
thing else  to  do.  But  one  day  Joyphena  was 
thoughtless  enough  to  go  off  somewhere  and  quit 
living.  You  could  see  that  Homer  wouldn't  ever 
quite  forgive  her  for  that. 

It  was  when  Homer  tried  to  find  a  substitute 
for  Joyphena  that  his  troubles  began.  He'd  had 
all  kinds  of  nurses,  but  the  good  ones  wouldn't 
stay  and  the  bad  ones  he'd  fired.  He'd  tried 
valets,  too,  but  none  of  'em  seemed  to  suit.  Then 
he  got  desperate  and  wrote  out  that  ad.  that 
brought  the  mob  down  on  him. 

He  gave  us  a  diagram  of  exactly  the  kind  of 
man  he  wanted,  and  from  his  plans  and  specifi- 
cations we  figured  out  that  what  Homer  was 
looking  for  was  a  cross  between  a  galley  slave 
and  a  he-angel,  some  one  who  would  know  just 
what  he  wanted  before  he  did,  and  be  ready  to 
hand  it  out  whenever  called  for.  And  he  was 
game  to  pay  the  price,  whatever  it  might  be. 

2 


18  SHORTY  McCABE 

"You  see/'  says  Homer,  "whenever  I  make 
the  least  exertion,  or  undergo  the  slightest  ex- 
citement, it  aggravates  the  leak." 

I'd  seen  lots  who  ducked  all  kinds  of  exertion, 
but  mighty  few  with  so  slick  an  excuse.  It  would 
have  done  me  good  to  have  said  so,  but  Leonidas 
didn't  look  at  it  in  that  way.  He  was  a  sympa- 
thizer from  headquarters;  seemed  to  like  no  thin' 
better  'n  to  hear  Homer  tell  how  bad  off  he  was. 

"What  you  need,  Fales,"  says  Leonidas,  "is 
the  country,  the  calm,  peaceful  country.  I  know 
a  nice,  quiet  little  place,  about  a  hundred  miles 
from  here,  that  would  just  suit  you,  and  if  you 
say  the  word  I'll  ship  you  off  down  there  early 
to-morrow  morning.  I'll  give  you  a  letter  to  an 
old  lady  who'll  take  care  of  you  better  than  four 
trained  nurses.  She  has  brought  half  a  dozen 
children  through  all  kinds  of  sickness,  from 
measles  to  broken  necks,  and  she's  never  quite 
so  contented  as  when  she's  trotting  around  waiting 
on  somebody.  I  stopped  there  once  when  I  was 
a  little  hoarse  from  a  cold,  and  before  she'd  let 
me  go  to  bed  she  made  me  drink  a  bowl  of  ginger 
tea,  soak  my  feet  in  hot  mustard  water,  and  bind 
a  salt  pork  poultice  around  my  neck.  If  you'd 
just  go  down  there  you'd  both  be  happy.  What 
do  you  say?" 

Homer  was  doubtful.    He'd  never  lived  much 


SHORTY  McCABE  19 

in  the  country  and  was  afraid  it  wouldn't  agree 
with  his  leak.  But  early  in  the  morning  he  was  up 
wantin'  to  know  more  about  it.  He'd  begun  to 
think  of  that  mob  of  snap  hunters  that  was  booked 
to  show  up  again  at  ten  o'clock,  and  it  made  him 
nervous.  Before  breakfast  was  over  he  was 
willing  to  go  almost  anywhere,  only  he  was  dead  set 
that  me  and  Leonidas  should  trail  along,  too. 
So  there  we  were,  with  Homer  on  our  hands. 

Well,  we  packed  a  trunk  for  him,  called  a  cab, 
and  got  him  loaded  on  a  parlor  car.  About  every 
so  often  he'd  clap  his  hands  to  his  side  and  groan: 
"Oh,  my  heart!  My  poor  heart!"  It  was  as 
touchin'  as  the  heroine's  speeches  to  the  top 
gallery.  On  the  way  down  Leonidas  gave  us  a 
bird's-eye  view  of  the  kind  of  Jim  Crow  settlement 
we  were  heading  for.  It  was  one  of  those  places 
where  they  date  things  back  to  the  time  when 
Lem  Saunders  fell  down  cellar  with  a  lamp  and 
set  the  house  afire. 

The  town  looked  it.  There  was  an  aggregation 
of  three  men,  two  boys  and  a  yellow  dog  in  sight 
on  Main  Street  when  we  landed.  We'd  wired 
ahead,  so  the  old  lady  was  ready  for  us.  Leonidas 
called  her  " Mother"  Bickell.  She  was  short, 
about  as  thick  through  as  a  sugar  barrel,  and 
wore  two  kinds  of  hair,  the  front  frizzes  bein'  a 
lovely  chestnut.  But  she  was  a  nice-spoken  old 


20  SHORTY  McCABE 

girl,  and  when  she  found  out  that  we'd  brought 
along  a  genuine  invalid  with  a  leak  in  his  blood 
pump,  she  almost  fell  on  our  necks.  In  about 
two  shakes  she'd  hustled  Homer  into  a  rocking- 
chair,  wedged  him  in  place  with  pillows,  wrapped 
a  blanket  around  his  feet,  and  shoved  him  up  to 
a  table  where  there  was  a  hungry  man's  layout  of 
clam  fritters,  canned  corn,  boiled  potatoes  and  hot 
mince  pie. 

There  wasn't  any  use  for  Homer  to  register  a 
kick  on  the  bill-of-fare.  She  was  too  busy  tellin' 
him  how  much  good  the  things  would  do  him,  and 
how  he  must  eat  a  lot  or  she'd  feel  bad,  to  listen 
to  any  remarks  of  his  about  toasted  crackers. 
For  supper  there  was  fried  fish,  apple  sauce  and  hot 
biscuit,  and  Homer  had  to  take  his  share.  He  was 
glad  to  go  to  bed  early.  She  didn't  object  to  that. 

Mother  Bickell's  house  was  right  in  the  middle 
of  the  town,  with  a  grocery  store  on  one  side  and 
the  postoffice  on  the  other.  Homer  had  a  big 
front  room  with  three  windows  on  Main  Street. 
There  was  a  strip  of  plank  sidewalk  in  front  of 
the  house,  so  that  you  didn't  miss  any  footfalls. 
Mother  Bickell  could  tell  who  was  goin'  by  without 
lookin'. 

Leonidas  and  me  put  in  the  evening  hearin' 
her  tell  about  some  of  the  things  that  had  happened 
to  her  oldest  boy.  He'd  had  a  whirl  out  of  most 


SHORTY  McCABE  21 

everything  but  an  earthquake.  After  that  we 
had  an  account  of  how  she'd  buried  her  two 
husbands.  About  ten  o'clock  we  started  for  bed, 
droppin'  in  to  take  a  look  at  Homer.  He  was 
sittin'  up,  wide  awake  and  lookin'  worried. 

"How  many  people  are  there  in  this  town?" 
says  he. 

"About  a  thousand,"  says  Leonidas.    "Why?" 

"  Then  they  have  all  marched  past  my  windows 
twice,"  says  Homer. 

"Shouldn't  wonder,"  says  Leonidas.  "They've 
just  been  to  the  postoffice  and  back  again.  They 
do  that  four  times  a  day.  But  you  mustn't  mind. 
Just  you  thank  your  stars  you're  down  here  where 
it's  nice  and  quiet.  Now  I'd  go  to  sleep  if  I  was 
you." 

Homer  said  he  would.  I  was  ready  to  tear  off 
a  few  yards  of  repose  myself,  but  somehow  I 
couldn't  connect.  It  was  quiet,  all  right — in 
spots.  Fact  is,  it  was  so  blamed  quiet  that  you 
could  hear  every  rooster  that  crowed  within  half 
a  mile.  If  a  man  on  the  other  side  of  town  shut 
a  window  you  knew  all  about  it. 

I  was  gettin'  there  though,  and  was  almost  up 
to  the  droppin'-off  place,  when  some  folks  in  a 
back  room  on  the  next  street  begins  to  indulge 
in  a  family  argument.  I  didn't  pay  much  notice 
to  the  preamble,  but  as  they  warmed  up  to  it  I 


22  SHORTY  McCABE 

couldn't  help  from  gettin'  the  drift.  It  was  all 
about  the  time  of  year  that  a  feller  by  the  name  of 
Hen  Dorsett  had  been  run  over  by  the  cars  up  to 
Jersey  City. 

"I  say  it  was  just  before  Thanksgiving"  pipes 
up  the  old  lady.  "I  know,  'cause  I  was  into  the 
butcher's  askin'  what  turkeys  would  be  likely  to 
fetch,  when  Doc  Brewswater  drops  in  and  says: 
'Mornin',  Eph.  Heard  about  Hen  Dorsett?' 
And  then  he  told  about  him  fallin'  under  the  cars. 
So  it  must  have  been  just  afore  Thanksgivin' ' 

" Thanksgivin'  your  grandmother!"  growls  the 
old  man.  "It  was  in  March,  along  the  second 
week,  I  should  say,  because  the  dny  I  heard  of  it 
was  just  after  school  election.  March  of  '83, 
that's  when  it  was." 

"Eighty-three!"  squeals  the  old  lady.  "Are 
you  losin'  your  mind  altogether?  It  was  '85,  the 
year  Jimmy  cut  his  hand  so  bad  at  the  sawmill." 

"Jimmy  wasn't  workin'  at  the  mill  that  year," 
raps  back  the  old  man.  "He  was  tongin'  oysters 
that  fall,  'cause  he  didn't  hear  a  word  about  Hen 
until  the  next  Friday  night,  when  I  told  him  myself. 
Hen  was  killed  on  a  Monday." 

"It  was  on  a  Saturday  or  I'm  a  lunatic,"  snaps 
the  old  lady. 

Well,  they  kept  on  pilin'  up  evidence,  each  one 
makin'  the  other  out  to  be  a  fool,  or  a  liar,  or 


SHORTY  McCABE  23 

both,  until  the  old  man  says:  "See  here,  Maria, 
I'm  goin'  up  the  street  and  ask  Ase  Horner  when 
it  was  that  Hen  Dorsett  was  killed.  Ase  knows, 
for  he  was  the  one  Mrs.  Dorsett  got  to  go  up  after 
Hen." 

"Yes,  and  he'll  tell  you  it  was  just  before 
Thanksgivin'  of  '85,  so  what's  the  use?"  says 
the  old  lady. 

"We'll  see  what  he  says,"  growls  the  old  man, 
and  I  heard  him  strike  a  light  and  get  into  his 
shoes. 

"  Who're  you  bettin'  on?"  says  Leonidas. 

"Gee!"  says  I.  "Are  you  awake,  too?  I 
thought  you  was  asleep  an  hour  ago." 

"I  was,"  says  he,  "but  when  this  Hen  Dorsett 
debate  breaks  loose  I  came  back  to  earth.  I'll 
gamble  that  the  old  woman's  right." 

"The  old  man's  mighty  positive,"  says  I. 
"Wonder  how  long  it'll  be  before  we  get  the 
returns?" 

"Perhaps  half  an  hour,"  says  Leonidas.  "He'll 
have  to  thrash  it  all  out  with  Ase  before  he  starts 
back.  We  might  as  well  sit  up  and  wait.  Any- 
way I  want  to  see  which  gets  the  best  of  it." 

"Let's  have  a  smoke,  then,"  says  I. 

"Why  not  go  along  with  the  old  man?"  says 
Leonidas.  "If  he  finds  he's  wrong  he  may  come 
back  and  lie  about  it." 


24  SHORTY  McCABE 

Well,  it  was  a  fool  thing  to  do,  when  you  think 
about  it,  but  somehow  Leonidas  had  a  way  of 
lookin'  at  things  that  was  different  from  other 
folks.  He  didn't  know  any  more  about  that 
there  Hen  Dorsett  than  I  did,  but  he  seemed  just 
as  keen  as  if  it  was  all  in  the  family.  We  had 
hustled  our  clothes  on  and  was  sneakin'  down  the 
front  stairs  as  easy  as  we  could  when  we  hears  from 
Homer. 

"I  heard  you  dressing/7  says  he,  "so  I  got  up, 
too.  I  haven't  been  asleep  yet." 

"Then  come  along  with  us,"  says  Leonidas. 
"It'll  do  you  good.  We're  only  going  up  the 
street  to  find  out  when  it  was  that  the  cars  struck 
Hen  Dorsett." 

Homer  didn't  savvy,  but  he  didn't  care.  Mainly 
he  wanted  comp'ny.  He  whispered  to  us  to  go 
easy,  suspectin'  that  if  we  woke  up  Mother  Bickell 
she'd  want  to  feed  him  some  more  clam  fritters. 
By  the  time  we'd  unlocked  the  front  door  though, 
she  was  after  us,  but  all  she  wanted  was  to  make 
Homer  wrap  a  shawl  around  his  head  to  keep  out 
the  night  air. 

"And  don't  you  dare  take  it  off  until  you  get 
back,"  says  she.  Homer  was  glad  to  get  away 
so  easy  and  said  he  wouldn't.  But  he  was  a 
sight,  lookin'  like  a  Turk  with  a  sore  throat. 

The  old  man  had  routed  Ase  Homer  out  by  the 


SHORTY  McCABE  25 

time  we  got  there,  and  they  was  havin'  it  hot  and 
heavy.  Ase  said  it  wasn't  either  November  nor 
March  when  he  went  up  after  Hen  Dorsett,  but 
the  middle  of  October.  He  knew  because  he'd 
just  begun  shingling  his  kitchen  and  the  line 
storm  came  along  before  he  got  it  finished.  More'n 
that,  it  was  in  '84,  for  that  was  the  year  he  ran 
for  sheriff. 

"See  here,  gentlemen,"  says  Leonidas,  "isn't 
it  possible  to  find  some  official  record  of  this  sad 
tragedy?  You  '11  excuse  us,  being  strangers,  for 
takin'  a  hand,  but  there  don't  seem  to  be  much 
show  of  our  getting  any  sleep  until  this  thing  is 
settled.  Besides,  I'd  like  to  know  myself.  Now 
let's  go  to  the  records." 

"I'm  ready,"  says  Ase.  "If  this  thick-headed 
old  idiot  here  don't  think  I  can  remember  back  a 
few  years,  why,  I'm  willing  to  stay  up  all  night  to 
show  him.  Let's  go  to  the  County  Clerk's  and 
make  him  open  up." 

So  we  started,  all  five  of  us,  just  as  the  town 
clock  struck  twelve.  We  hadn't  gone  more'n  a 
block,  though,  before  we  met  a  whiskered  old 
relic  etumpin'  along  with  a  stick  in  his  hand. 
He  was  the  police  force,  it  seems.  Course,  he 
wanted  to  know  what  was  up,  and  when  he  found 
out  he  was  ready  to  make  affidavit  that  Hen  had 
been  killed  some  time  in  August  of  '81. 


26  SHORTY  McCABE 

"Wa'n't  I  one  of  the  pall  bearers?"  says  he. 
"And  hadn't  I  just  drawn  my  back  pension  and 
paid  off  the  mortgage  on  my  place,  eh?  No  use 
routin'  out  the  Clerk  to  ask  such  a  fool  question; 
and  anyways,  he  ain't  to  home,  come  to  think 
of  it."  " 

"If  you'll  permit  me  to  suggest,"  says  Leonidas, 
"there  ought  to  be  all  the  evidence  needed  right 
in  the  cemetery." 

"Of  course  there  is!"  says  Ase  Horner.  "Why 
didn't  we  think  of  that  first  off?  I'll  get  a  lantern 
and  we'll  go  up  and  read  the  date  on  the  headstun." 

There  was  six  of  us  lined  up  for  the  cemetery, 
the  three  natives  jawin'  away  as  to  who  was 
right  and  who  wasn't.  Every  little  ways  some 
one  would  hear  the  racket,  throw  up  a  window, 
and  chip  in.  Most  of  'em  asked  us  to  wait  until 
they  could  dress  and  join  the  procession.  Before 
we'd  gone  half  a  mile  it  looked  like  a  torchlight 
parade.  The  bigger  the  crowd  got,  the  faster 
the  recruits  fell  in.  Folks  didn't  stop  to  ask  any 
questions.  They  just  jumped  into  their  clothes, 
grabbed  lanterns  and  piked  after  us.  There  was 
men  and  women  and  children,  not  to  mention  a 
good  many  dogs.  Every  one  was  jabberin'  away, 
some  askin'  what  it  was  all  about  and  the  rest 
tryin'  to  explain.  There  must  have  been  a  good 
many  wild  guesses,  for  I  heard  one  old  feller  in 


SHORTY  McCABE  27 

the  rear  rank  squallin'  out :  "  Remember,  neighbors, 
no  thin'  rash;  now;  no  thin'  rash!" 

I  couldn't  figure  out  just  what  they  meant  by 
that  at  the  time;  but  then,  the  whole  business 
didn't  seem  any  too  sensible,  so  I  didn't  bother. 
On  the  way  up  I'd  sort  of  fell  in  with  the  constable. 
He  couldn't  get  any  one  else  to  listen  to  him,  and 
as  he  had  a  lot  of  unused  conversation  on  hand  I 
let  him  spiel  it  off  at  me.  Leonidas  and  Homer 
were  ahead  with  Ase  Homer  and  the  old  duffer 
that  started  the  row,  and  the  debate  was  still 
goin'  on. 

When  we  got  to  the  cemetery  Homer  dropped 
out  and  leaned  up  against  the  gate,  sayin'  he'd 
wait  there  for  us.  We  piled  after  Ase,  who'd 
made  a  dash  to  get  to  the  headstone  first. 

"It's  right  over  in  this  section,"  says  he,  wavin' 
his  lantern,  "  and  I  want  all  of  you  to  come  and 
see  that  I  know  what  I'm  talking  about  when  I 
give  out  dates.  I  want  to  show  you,  by  ginger, 
that  I've  got  a  mem'ry  that's  better'n  any  diary 
ever  wrote.  Here  we  are  now!  Here's  the  grave 
and — well,  durn  my  eyes!  Blessed  if  there's  any 
sign  of  a  headstun  here!" 

And  there  wa'n't,  either. 

"By  jinks!"  says  the  old  constable,  slappin'  his 
leg.  "That's  one  on  me,  boys.  Why,  Lizzie 
Dorsett  told  me  only  last  week  that  her  mother 


28  SHORTY  McCABE 

had  the  stun  took  up  and  sent  away  to  have  the 
name  of  her  second  husband  cut  on't.  Only  last 
week  she  told  me,  and  here  I'd  clean  forgot  it." 

"You're  an  old  billy  goat!"  says  Ase  Horner. 

"There,  there!"  says  Leonidas,  soothing  him 
down.  "We've  all  enjoyed  the  walk,  anyway, 
and  maybe "  But  just  then  he  hears  some- 
thing that  makes  him  prick  up  his  ears.  ' '  What's 
the  row  back  there  at  the  gate?"  he  asks.  Then, 
turnin'  to  me,  he  says:  "Shorty,  where's  Homer?" 

"Down  there,"  says  I. 

"Then  come  along  on  the  jump,"  says  he. 
"If  there's  any  trouble  lying  around  loose  he'll 
get  into  it." 

Down  by  the  gate  we  could  see  lanterns  by  the 
dozen  and  we  could  hear  all  sorts  of  yells  and 
excitement,  so  we  makes  our  move  on  the  double. 
Just  as  we  fetched  the  gate  some  one  hollers: 

" There  he  goes !    Lynch  the  villain!" 

We  sees  a  couple  of  long  legs  strike  out,  and 
gets  a  glimpse  of  a  head  wrapped  up  in  a  shawl. 
It  was  Homer,  all  right,  and  he  had  the  gang  after 
him.  He  took  a  four-foot  fence  at  a  hurdle  and 
was  streakin'  off  through  a  plowed  field  into  the 
dark. 

"Hi,  Fales!"  sings  out  Leonidas.  "Come  back 
here,  you  chump!" 

But  Homer  kept  right  on.     Maybe  he  didn't 


SHORTY  McCABE  29 

hear,  and  perhaps  he  was  too  scared  to  stop  if  he 
did.  All  we  could  do  was  to  get  into  the  free-for- 
all  with  the  others. 

"What  did  he  do?"  yells  Leonidas  at  a  sandy- 
whiskered  man  who  carried  a  clothes-line  and 
was  shoutin',  "Lynch  him!  Lynch  him  I7'  between 
jumps. 

"Do!"  says  the  man.  "Ain't  you  heard? 
Why,  he  choked  Mother  Bickell  to  death  and 
robbed  her  of  seventeen  dollars.  He's  wearin7 
her  shawl  now." 

As  near  as  we  could  make  out,  the  thing  hap- 
pened like  this:  When  the  tail  enders  came 
rushin'  up  with  all  kinds  of  wild  yarns  about 
robbers  and  such,  they  catches  sight  of  Homer, 
leanin'  up  in  the  shadow  of  the  gate.  Some  one 
holds  a  lantern  up  to  his  face  and  an  old  woman 
spots  the  shawl. 

"It's  Mother  Bickell's,"  says  she.  "Where 
did  he  get  it?" 

That  was  enough.  They  went  for  Homer  like 
he'd  set  fire  to  a  synagogue.  Homer  tried  to  tell 
'em  who  he  was,  and  about  his  heart,  but  he 
talked  too  slow,  or  his  voice  wa'n't  strong  enough; 
and  when  they  began  to  plan  on  yankin'  him  up 
then  and  there,  without  printin'  his  picture  in  the 
paper,  or  a  trial,  he  heaves  up  a  yell  and  lights  out 
for  the  boarding-house. 


30  SHORTY  McCABE 

Ten  hours  before  I  wouldn't  have  matched 
Homer  against  a  one-legged  man,  but  the  way  he 
was  gettin'  over  the  ground  then  was  worth  the 
price  of  admission.  I  have  done  a  little  track 
work  myself,  and  Leonidas  didn't  show  up  for 
any  glue-foot,  but  Homer  would  have  made  the 
tape  ahead  of  us  for  any  distance  under  two 
miles.  He'd  cleared  the  crowd  and  was  back 
into  the  road  again,  travelin'  wide  and  free,  with 
the  shawl  streamin'  out  behind  and  the  nearest 
avenger  two  blocks  behind  us,  when  out  jumps 
a  Johnny-on-the-spot  citizen  and  gives  him  the 
low  tackle.  He  was  a  pussy,  bald-headed  little 
duffer,  this  citizen  chap,  and  not  bein'  used  to 
blockin'  runs  he  goes  down  underneath.  Before 
they  could  untangle  we  comes  up,  snakes  Homer 
off  the  top  of  the  heap,  and  skiddoos  for  all  we  had 
left  in  us. 

By  the  time  that  crowd  of  jay-hawkers  comes 
boomin'  down  to  Mother  Bickell's  to  view  the 
remains  we  had  the  old  girl  up  and  settin'  at  the 
front  window  with  a  light  behind  her.  They  asked 
each  other  a  lot  of  foolish  questions  and  then 
concluded  to  go  home. 

While  things  was  quietin'  down  we  were  making 
a  grand  rush  to  get  Homer  into  bed  before  he 
passed  in  altogether.  Neither  Leonidas  nor  me 
looked  for  him  to  last  more'n  an  hour  or  two 


SHORTY  McCABE  31 

after  that  stunt,  and  we  were  thinkin'  of  taking 
him  back  in  a  box.  But  after  he  got  his  breath 
he  didn't  say  much  except  that  he  was  plumb 
tired.  We  were  still  wonderin'  whether  to  send 
for  a  doctor  or  the  coroner,  when  he  rolls  over 
with  his  face  to  the  wall  and  goes  to  sleep  as  com- 
fortable as  a  kitten  in  a  basket. 

It  was  in  the  middle  of  the  forenoon  before  any 
of  us  shows  up  for  breakfast.  We'd  inspected 
Homer  once,  about  eight  o'clock,  and  found  him 
still  sawin'  wood,  so  we  didn't  try  to  get  him  up. 
But  just  as  I  was  openin'  my  second  egg  down  he 
comes,  walkin'  a  little  stiff,  but  otherwise  as  good 
as  ever,  if  not  better. 

"How  far  was  it  that  I  ran  last  night,  Mr. 
Dodge?"  says  he. 

"About  a  mile  and  a  half,"  says  Leonidas, 
stating  it  generous.  "  And  it  was  as  good  amateur 
sprinting  as  I  ever  saw." 

Homer  cracked  the  first  smile  I'd  seen  him  tackle 
and  pulled  up  to  the  table. 

"I'm  beginning  to  think,"  says  he,  "that  there 
can't  be  much  of  a  leak  in  my  heart,  after  all. 
When  we  get  back  to  town  to-night,  Mr.  McCabe, 
we'll  have  another  talk  about  those  boxing  lessons. 
Eggs?  Yes,  thank  you,  Mrs.  Bickell;  about  four, 
soft.  And  by  the  way,  Dodge,  what  was  the  date 
on  that  gravestone,  anyway?" 


CHAPTER  II 

WHAT  did  we  do  with  Homer,  eh?  Ah,  forget 
itl  Say,  soon's  he  got  back  to  town  and  found 
he  could  navigate  'round  by  himself,  he  begins  to 
count  up  expenses.  Then  he  asks  us  to  put  in  a 
bill. 

"Bill!"  says  I.  "What  for?  I'm  no  hired 
man.  I've  been  doin'  this  for  fun."  Leonldas 
says  the  same. 

But  Homer  wouldn't  have  It  that  way.  He 
says  we've  done  him  a  lot  of  good,  and  lost  our 
valuable  time,  and  he'll  feel  hurt  if  we  don't  let 
him  make  us  a  little  present.  With  that  he  pries 
open  a  fat  leather  green  goods  case,  paws  over  a 
layer  of  yellow  backs  two  or  three  inches  thick — 
and  fishes  out  a  couple  of  ten  spots. 

"  Stung  1"  says  Leonidas,  under  his  breath. 

"Homer,"  says  I,  shovin'  'em  back  at  him,  "if 
you're  as  grateful  as  all  that,  I'll  tell  you  what  you'd 
better  do — keep  these,  and  found  a  Home  for 
Incurable  Tight-wads." 

Then  we  loses  him  in  the  crowd,  and  each  of  us 
strikes  out  for  himself.  Blessed  if  I  know  where 
Leonidas  strayed  to,  but  I'm  dead  sure  of  the 
place  I  fetched  up  at.  It  was  It'ly,  North  It'ly. 
Ever  been  there?  Well,  don't.  Nothin'  but 


SHORTY  McCABE  33 

dagoes  and  garlic  and  roads  that  run  up  hill. 
Say,  some  day  when  my  roll  needs  the  anti-fat 
treatment,  I'm  goin'  to  send  over  there  and  have 
'em  put  a  monument  that'll  read :  "  Here's  where 
Shorty  McCabe  was  buried  alive  for  five  weeks." 

Doing?  Wasn't  a  blamed  thing  doing  there. 
We  were  just  assassinatin'  time,  that's  all.  But 
the  Boss  thought  he  liked  it,  for  a  while,  so  I  had 
to  hang  on.  The  Boss?  Oh,  he's  just  the  Boss. 
Guess  you  wouldn't  know  him — he  hasn't  been 
cured  by  three  bottles  of  anything,  and  isn't 
much  for  buyin'  billboard  space.  But  he's  a 
star  all  right.  He's  got  a  mint  somewhere,  a 
little  private  mint  of  his  own,  that  runs  days  and 
nights  and  overtime.  Scotty  mine?  No,  better'n 
that — defunct  grandmothers  and  such.  It's  been 
comin'  his  way  ever  since  he  was  big  enough  to 
clip  a  coupon.  Don't  believe  he  knows  how  much 
he  has  got,  but  that  don't  worry  him.  He  don't 
even  try  to  spend  the  gate  receipts;  just  uses 
what  he  wants  and  lets  the  rest  pyramid. 

Course,  he's  out  of  my  class  in  a  way;  but 
then  again,  he  ain't.  The  way  we  come  to  hook 
up  was  like  this:  You  see,  when  I  quits  Homer, 
I  takes  the  first  thing  that  comes  along,  which 
happens  to  be  the  Jericho  Lamb.  He  wants  me 
to  train  him  for  his  go  with  Grasshopper  Jake, 
and  I  did. 
3 


34  SHORTY  McCABE 

Well,  we  pulls  it  off  in  Denver.  The  Lamb 
he  bores  in  like  a  stone  crusher  for  five  rounds. 
Then  he  stops  a  cross  hook  with  his  jaw  and  is 
jarred  some.  That  brings  out  the  yellow.  Spite 
of  all  I  could  say,  he  stops  rushin'  and  plays  for 
wind  and  safety.  Think  of  that,  with  the  Grass- 
hopper as  groggy  as  a  five  days  old  calf!  Well,  I 
saw  what  was  coming  to  him,  right  there.  When 
the  bell  rings  I  chucks  my  towel  to  a  rubber  and 
quits.  I  hadn't  hired  out  for  no  wet  nurse,  and  I 
told  the  crowd  so. 

Just  as  I  was  makin'  my  sneak  this  quiet- 
speakin'  chap  falls  in  alongside  and  begins  to 
talk  to  me.  First  off  I  sized  him  up  for  one  of 
them  English  Johnnies  that  had  lost  his  eyeglass. 
But  that's  where  1  was  dead  wrong.  He  wasn't 
no  Johnnie,  and  he  wasn't  no  tinhorn  sport.  But 
he  was  a  new  one  on  me.  They  don't  grow  many 
like  him,  I  guess,  so  no  wonder  I  didn't  get  wise 
right  away. 

"Think  the  Lamb's  all  in?"  says  he. 

"All  in!"  says  I.  "He  never  had  anything  to 
put  in.  He  was  licked  before  the  bell  tapped. 
And  me  trainin'  him  for  five  weeks!  I'm  goin' 
to  kick  myself  all  the  way  back  to  New 
York." 

"  I'll  help  you,"  says  he.  "  I  backed  that  Lamb 
of  yours  to  win." 


SHORTY  McCABE  35 

"How  much?"  says  I. 

"Oh,  only  a  few  hundred." 

"But  you  ain't  seen  him  licked  yet/'  says  I. 

"I'll  take  your  word  for  it,"  says  he. 

Say,  that  was  no  tinhorn  play,  was  it?  He  goes 
off  and  leaves  his  good  money  up,  just  on  a  flier 
like  that. 

"You're  the  real  goods,"  says  I. 

"I  can  return  the  sentiment,"  says  he. 

So  we  took  the  midnight  East.  When  we  got 
the  morning  papers  at  Omaha  we  saw  that  the 
Lamb  only  lasted  half-way  through  the  seventh, 
and  'possumed  the  count  at  that.  Well,  we  got 
some  acquainted  before  we  hit  Chicago,  and  by 
the  time  we'd  landed  in  Jersey  City  I'd  signed 
articles  with  him  for  a  year.  He  calls  it  secretary, 
but  I  holds  out  for  sparrin'  partner. 

Oh,  he  can  handle  the  mitts  some,  all  right; 
none  of  your  parlor  Y.  M.  C.  A.  business,  either, 
but  give  and  take.  He  strips  at  one  hundred  and 
forty  and  can  stand  punishment  like  a  stevedore. 
But,  of  course,  there's  no  chance  of  ever  gettin' 
him  on  the  platform.  He  likes  to  go  his  four 
rounds  before  dinner,  just  to  take  the  drab  color- 
ing off  the  world  in  general.  That's  the  way  he 
puts  it. 

Take  him  all  around,  he's  a  thoroughbred.  I 
know  that  much,  but  after  that  I  don't  follow  him. 


36  SHORTY  McCABE 

I  used  to  wonder  sometimes.  Give  most  Johnnies 
his  pile  and  turn  'em  loose,  and  what  would  they 
do?  They'd  wear  out  the  club  window-sills,  and 
take  in  pink  teas,  and  do  the  society  turn.  But 
not  for  him.  He's  a  mixer,  the  Boss  is.  He 
wants  to  see  things,  all  kinds. 

Sometimes  he  lugs  me  along  and  sometimes  he 
don't.  It  all  depends  on  whether  I'd  fit  in.  When 
he  heads  for  Fifth  Avenue  I  know  I'm  let  out. 
But  when  he  gets  into  a  sack  coat  and  derby  hat 
I'm  bettin'  that  maybe  we'll  fetch  up  somewheres 
on  the  East  Side.  Perhaps  it'll  be  the  grand 
annual  ball  of  the  Truck  Drivers'  Association,  or 
just  one  of  them  Anarchist  talkfests  in  the  back 
room  of  some  beer  parlor.  There's  no  telling. 
We  may  drink  muddy  coffee  out  of  dinky  brass 
cups  with  a  lot  of  Syrian  rug  sellers  down  on 
Washington  Street,  or  drop  into  the  middle  of  a 
gang  of  sailors  down  on  Front  Street. 

And  I'm  no  bodyguard,  mind.  The  Boss  ain't 
in  much  need  of  that.  But  he  likes  to  have  some 
one  to  talk  to,  and  I  guess  most  of  his  friends 
don't  go  in  for  such  promiscuous  visitin'  lists  as 
he  does.  I  like  it  well  enough,  but  where  he  gets 
any  fun  out  of  it  I  can't  see.  I  put  it  up  to  him 
once,  and  what  do  you  suppose  he  says?  Asks 
me  if  I  ever  heard  of  a  duck  by  the  name  of  Panzy 
de  Lean. 


SHORTY  McCABE  37 

"Sounds  kind  of  familiar/' says  I.  " Don't  he 
run  a  hotel  or  something  down  to  Palm  Beach?" 

"You're  warm,"  says  the  Boss,  "but  you've 
mixed  your  dates.  Old  Panzy  struck  the  east 
coast  about  four  hundred  years  before  our  friend 
Flagler  annexed  it.  And  he  wasn't  hi  the  hotel 
business.  Exploring  was  his  line.  He  was  looking 
for  a  new  kind  of  mineral  water  that  he  was  going 
to  call  the  Elixir  of  Life.  Well,  in  some  ways 
Panzy  and  I  are  alike." 

It  was  a  josh,  all  right,  that  he  was  handin'  out, 
but  he  meant  some  thin'  by  it,  for  the  Boss  ain't 
the  kind  to  talk  just  for  the  sake  of  making  a 
noise.  I  never  let  on  but  what  I  was  next.  Later 
in  the  season  I  had  a  chance  to  come  back  at  him 
with  it,  for  along  in  February  we  got  under  way 
for  Palm  Beach  ourselves. 

"Goin'  to  take  a  hack  at  the  'lixir  business?" 
I  says. 

"No,  Shorty,"  says  he.  "Just  going  to  dodge 
a  few  blizzards  and  watch  the  mob." 

But  he  didn't  like  it  much,  being  in  that  push,  so 
we  took  a  jump  over  to  Bermuda,  where  every- 
thing's so  white  it  makes  your  eyes  ache.  That 
didn't  suit  him,  either. 

"Shorty,"  says  he  one  day,  "you  didn't  sign 
for  any  outside  tour,  but  I've  got  the  go  fever  bad. 
Can  you  stand  it  for  awhile  in  foreign  parts?" 


38  SHORTY  McCABE 

"I'm  game/'  says  I,  not  knowing  what  I  was 
to  be  up  against. 

So  we  hiked  back  to  New  York  and  Mister 
'Ankins — he's  the  lady-like  gent  that  stays  home 
an'  keeps  our  trousers  creased,  an'  juggles  the 
laundry  bag  and  so  forth,  when  we're  there — 
Mr.  'Ankins  he  packs  a  couple  of  steamer  trunks 
and  off  we  starts. 

Well,  we  hit  a  lot  of  outlandish  places,  like 
Paris  and  Berlin;  and  finally,  when  things  began 
to  warm  up  some,  and  I  knew  by  the  calendar 
that  the  hokey-pokey  men  had  come  out  on  the 
Bowery,  we  lands  in  Monte  Carlo.  Say,  I'd  heard 
a  lot  about  Monte  Carlo^on  and  off — there  was  a 
song  about  it  once,  you  know — but  if  that's  the 
best  imitation  of  Phil  Daly's  they  can  put  up  over 
there,  they'd  better  go  out  of  business.  Not  that 
the  scenery  isn't  bang-up  and  the  police  protection 
0.  K.,  but  the  game — well,  I've  seen  more  excite- 
ment over  a  ten-cent  ante. 

The  Boss  didn't  care  much  for  that  sort  of 
thing  anyway.  He  touched  'em  up  for  a  stack 
or  two,  but  almost  went  to  sleep  over  it.  It 
wasn't  until  Old  Blue  Beak  butted  in  that  our 
visit  began  to  look  interestin'.  He  was  a  count, 
or  a  duke,  or  something,  with  a  name  full  of  i's 
and  I's,  but  I  called  him  Blue  Beak  for  short.  The 
Boss  said  for  a  miniature  word  painting  that 


SHORTY  McCABE  39 

couldn't  be  bettered.  Never  saw  a  finer  specimen 
of  hand-decorated  frontispiece  in  my  life.  It 
wasn't  just  red,  nor  purple.  It  was  as  near  blue 
as  a  nose  can  get.  Other  ways,  he  was  a  tall, 
skinny  old  freak,  with  a  dyed  mustache  and 
little  black  eyes  as  shifty  as  a  fox  terrier's.  He 
was  as  polite,  though,  as  a  book  agent,  and  as 
smooth  as  the  business  side  of  a  banana  skin. 

"What's  his  game,"  says  I  to  the  Boss,  after 
Blue  Beak  and  him  had  swapped  French  conversa- 
tion for  an  hour.  "Is  it  gold  bricks  or  green 
goods?" 

"My  friend,  the  count,"  says  the  Boss,  "wants 
to  rent  us  a  castle,  all  furnished  and  found;  a 
genuine  antique,  with  a  pedigree  that  runs  back 
to  Marc  Antony." 

"A  castle!"  says  I.  "What's  that  the  cue  to? 
And  how  did  he  guess  you  were  a  come-on?" 

"Every  American  is  a  come-on,  Shorty,"  says 
the  Boss.  "But  this  is  a  new  proposition  to  me. 
However,  I  mean  to  find  out.  I've  told  him  to 
come  back  after  dinner." 

And  old  Blue  Beak  had  his  memory  with  him, 
all  right.  He  came  back.  He  and  the  Boss  had 
a  long  session  of  it.  In  the  morning  the  Boss  says 
to  me: 

"Shorty,  throw  out  your  chest;  you're  going 
to  live  in  a  castle  for  a  while." 


40  SHORTY  McCABE 

Then  he  told  me  how  it  happened.  Blue  Beak 
wasn't  any  con  man  at  all,  just  one  of  those  hard- 
up  gents  whose  names  look  well  in  a  list  of  guests, 
but  don't  carry  weight  with  the  paying  teller. 
He  was  in  such  a  rush  to  get  the  ranch  off  his 
hands,  though,  that  price  didn't  seem  to  figure 
much.  That's  what  made  the  Boss  sit  up  and 
take  notice.  He  was  a  great  one  for  wanting  to 
know  why. 

"  We'll  start  to-day,"  says  he. 

So  off  we  goes,  moseyin'  down  into  It'ly  on  a 
bum  railroad,  staying  at  bummer  hotels,  and 
switching  off  to  a  rickety  old  chaise  behind  a  pair 
of  animated  frames  that  showed  the  S.  P.  C.  A. 
hadn't  got  as  far  as  It'ly  yet.  Think  of  riding 
from  the  Battery  to  White  Plains  in  a  Fifth  Ave- 
nue stage!  That  would  be  a  chariot  race  to  what 
we  took  before  we  hove  in  sight  of  that  punky 
castle.  Alter  that  it  was  like  climbing  three 
sets  of  Palisades,  one  top  of  the  other,  on  a  road 
that  did  the  corkscrew  all  the  way. 

"That's  your  castle,  is  it?"  says  I,  rubberin' 
up  at  it.  "Looks  like  a  storage  warehouse 
stranded  on  Pike's  Peak.  Gee,  but  I  wouldn't 
like  to  fall  out  of  one  of  those  bedroom  windows! 
You'd  never  hit  anything  for  an  hour.  Handy 
place  to  have  company,  though;  wouldn't  have 
to  put  on  the  potatoes  until  you  saw  'em  coming. 


SHORTY  McCABE  41 

So  that's  a  castle,  is  it?  I  don't  wonder  old  Blue 
Beak  had  a  lot  of  conversation  to  unload.  If  I 
live  up  there  all  summer  I  shall  accumulate  enough 
talk  to  last  me  the  rest  of  my  life." 

"Oh,  I  don't  imagine  we'll  be  lonesome,"  puts 
in  the  Boss.  "I  fancy  I  caught  sight  of  one  or 
two  of  our  neighbors  on  the  way." 

"  You  did?  "says  I.    "Where?" 

"Behind  the  rocks,"  says  he,  kind  of  snick- 
ering. 

But  I  never  savvied.  I'd  had  my  eyes  glued 
to  that  dago  Waldorf-Astoria  balanced  up  there 
on  that  toothpick  of  a  mountain.  I  had  a  batty 
idea  that  the  next  whiff  of  breeze  would  jar  it 
loose.  But  when  they'd  opened  up  a  gate  like 
the  double  doors  of  an  armory,  and  let  us  in,  I 
forgot  all  that.  Say,  that  castle  was  the  solidest 
thing  I  ever  run  across.  The  walls  were  so  thick 
that  the  windows  looked  like  they  were  set  at 
the  end  of  tunnels.  In  the  middle  was  a  big  court, 
such  as  they  have  in  these  swell  new  apartment 
houses,  and  a  lot  of  doors  and  windows  opened  on 
that. 

"Much  as  'leven  rooms  and  bath,  eh?"  says  I. 

"The  Count  assures  me  that  there  are  two 
hundred  and  odd  rooms,  not  reckoning  the  dun- 
geons," said  the  Boss.  "I  hope  we'll  find  one  or 
two  of  them  fit  to  live  in." 


42  SHORTY  McCABE 

We  did,  just  about  that.  A  white-headed  old 
villain,  who  looked  as  if  he'd  just  escaped  from  a 
"Pirates  of  Penzance"  chorus — Vincenzo,  he  called 
himself — took  our  credentials  and  then  showed 
us  around  the  shop.  There  was  a  dining-room 
about  the  size  of  the  Grand  Central  train  shed. 
Say,  a  Harlem  man  would  have  wept  for  joy  at 
sight  of  it.  And  there  was  a  picture  gallery  that 
had  Steve  Brodie's  collection  beat  a  mile.  As  for 
bedrooms,  there  was  enough  to  accommodate  a 
State  convention.  The  only  running  water  in 
sight,  though,  was  in  the  fountain  out  in  the 
court,  and  the  place  looked  as  though  when  the 
gas  man  made  his  last  call  he'd  taken  the  fixtures 
along  with  the  meter. 

Yet  the  Boss  seemed  to  be  tickled  to  death  with 
the  whole  shooting  match.  At  dinner  that  night 
he  made  me  sit  at  one  end  of  the  dining-room 
table  while  he  sat  at  the  other,  and  we  were  so 
far  apart  we  had  to  shout  at  each  other  when 
we  talked.  The  backs  of  some  of  those  dining- 
room  chairs  were  more  than  eight  feet  tall.  It 
was  like  leaning  up  against  a  billboard.  The 
waiters  looked  like  stage  villains  out  of  a  job,  and 
whenever  they  passed  the  potatoes  I  peeled  my 
eye  for  a  knife  play.  It  didn't  come  though. 
Nothing  did. 

We  put  in  nearly  a  week  rummaging  through 


SHORTY  McCABE  43 

that  moldy  old  barracks.  It  was  three  days 
before  I  could  come  down  to  breakfast  without 
getting  lost.  The  Boss  found  a  lot  to  look  at 
and  paw  over;  old  books  and  pictures,  rusty  tin 
armor  and  such  truck.  He  even  poked  around  in 
the  coal  cellars  that  they  called  dungeons. 

I  liked  being  up  in  the  towers  best.  I'd  go  up 
there  and  look  about  due  west,  where  New  York 
was  the  last  time  I  saw  it.  I  never  wanted  wings 
quite  so  bad  as  I  did  then.  And,  say,  I'd  given 
up  a  month's  salary  for  a  sporting  extra  some 
nights.  Dull?  Why,  there  are  crossroads  up  in 
Sullivan  County  that  would  seem  like  the  Tender- 
loin alongside  of  that  place. 

Funny  thing,  though,  was  that  the  Boss  was  so 
stuck  on  it.  He'd  gas  about  the  lakes,  and  the 
mountains,  and  the  sky,  and  all  that,  pointing 
'em  out  to  me  as  if  they  were  worth  seeing,  when 
I'd  seen  better'n  that  many  a  time,  painted  on 
back  drops — and  could  get  away  from  'em  when 
I  wanted.  But  here  it  was  a  case  of  nowhere  to 
stay  but  in.  You  couldn't  go  pikin'  around  the 
landscape  without  falling  off  the  edge. 

Guess  I'd  have  gone  clean  nutty  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  the  little  glove  play  we  did  every  after- 
noon. We  had  some  of  the  chorus  hands  fix  up 
a  nice  lot  of  straw  in  a  corner  of  the  courtyard, 
so's  to  sort  of  upholster  the  paving  stones,  and 


44  SHORTY  McCABE 

after  we  got  used  to  the  new  footwork  it  was 
almost  as  good  as  a  rubber  mat. 

We'd  been  having  a  gingery  little  go  one  day, 
with  the  whole  crew  of  the  castle,  from  head 
purser  down  to  the  second  assistant  pan  wrastler, 
holding  their  breath  in  the  background,  and  I 
was  playing  shower  bath  for  the  Boss  with  a 
leather  bucket,  dipping  out  of  the  fountain  pool 
and  sousing  it  over  him,  when  I  spots  a  deadhead 
in  the  audience. 

She'd  been  playin'  peek-a-boo  behind  one  of 
them  big  stone  pillars,  but  I  guess  she  had  got  so 
interested  that  she  forgot  and  stepped  out  into 
the  open.  She  was  a  native,  all  right;  but  say, 
she  wasn't  any  back-row  dago  girl.  She  was  in  the 
prima  donna  class,  she  was.  Ever  see  Melba 
made  up  for  the  "Carmen"  act?  Well,  this  one 
was  about  half  Melba's  size,  but  for  shape  and 
color  she  had  her  stung  to  a  whisper;  and  as  for 
wardrobe,  she  had  it  all  on.  Gold  hoops  in  her 
ears,  tinkly  things  on  her  jacket,  and  a  rainbow 
dress  with  the  reds  and  greens  leading  the  field. 
Eyes  were  her  strong  point,  though — regular 
forty  candle  powers.  She  had  the  current  all 
switched  on,  too,  and  a  plumb  centre  range  on 
the  Boss. 

Now  he  wasn't  exactly  in  reception  cos-tume, 
the  Boss  wasn't.  When  he'd  knocked  off  his 


SHORTY  McCABE  45 

runnin'  shoes  it  left  him  in  a  pair  of  salmon  trunks 
that  cleared  the  knees  considerable.  He'd  made 
a  fine  ad.  for  a  physical  culture  school,  just  as  he 
stood;  for  he's  well  muscled,  and  his  underpinning 
mates  up,  and  he  don't  interfere  when  he  walks. 
The  cold  water  had  brought  out  the  baby  pink  all 
over  him,  and  he  looked  like  one  of  these  circus 
riders  does  on  the  four  sheet  posters.  He  had  the 
limelight,  too,  for  a  streak  of  sun  comin'  down 
between  the  towers  just  hit  him.  I  see  the  girl 
wasn't  missin'  any  of  these  points.  It  wasn't 
any  snapshot  she  was  takin',  it  was  a  time  ex- 
posure. 

"  Who's  your  lady  friend  in  the  wings?"  says  I 
to  the  Boss. 

"  Where?"  says  he. 

I  jerks  my  thumb  at  her.  For  a  minute  there 
wasn't  a  word  said.  The  Boss  wasn't  able,  I 
guess,  and  the  girl  never  moved  an  eyelash.  Then 
he  yells  for  the  bath  towel  and  makes  a  break 
inside,  me  after  him.  When  we'd  rubbed  down 
and  got  into  our  Broadway  togs,  we  chases  back 
and  organizes  ourselves  into  a  board  of  inquiry. 
Who  was  she — regular  boarder,  or  just  transient? 
Where  did  she  come  from?  And  why?  Like- 
wise how,  trolley,  subway,  or  balloon? 

But  I'm  blessed  if  that  whole  gang  didn't  go  as 
mum  as  a  lot  of  railroad  hands  after  a  smash-up. 


46  SHORTY  McCABE 

Why,  they  hadn't  seen  no  such  lady,  cross  their 
hearts  they  hadn't.  Maybe  it  was  old  Rosa,  yes? 
And  Rosa  a  sylph  that  would  fit  tight  in  a  pork 
barrel!  A  goat,  then? 

"Let's  give  'em  the  third  degree,"  says  I. 

So  we  done  it,  locked  'em  all  in  a  room  and  put 
'em  on  the  carpet  one  by  one.  They  was  scared 
stiff,  too  stiff  to  talk.  All  but  old  Vincenzo,  the 
white-haired  old  pirate  the  count  had  left  in 
charge.  He  was  a  lovely  peagreen  under  the  gills, 
but  he  made  a  stagger  at  putting  up  a  game  of 
talk.  No,  he  hadn't  seen  no  one.  He  had  been 
watching  their  excellencies  in  their  little  affair 
of  honor.  Still,  he  couldn't  swear  that  we  hadn't 
seen  some  one.  Folks  did  see  things  at  the  castle; 
he  had  seen  sights  himself,  though  generally 
after  dark.  He  remembered  a  song  about  a 
beautiful  young  lady  who,  back  in  the  seventeen 
hundred  and  something,  had — 

But  I  shut  him  off  there.  This  fairy  might 
have  seen  seventeen  summers,  or  maybe  eighteen, 
but  she  was  no  antique.  I  could  kiss  the  Book 
on  that.  She  was  a  regular  Casino  broiler.  I 
made  a  point  of  this.  It  didn't  feaze  the  old  sinner, 
though.  He  went  on  perjuring  himself  as  cheer- 
ful as  a  paid  witness,  and  he'd  have  broken  the 
Ananias  record  if  he'd  had  time. 

"That  will  do  for  now,"  says  the  Boss,  in  a 


SHORTY  McCABE  47 

kind  of  "step-up-front-there"  tone.  "If  you 
don't  know  who  she  was  just  now,  we'll  let  it  go 
at  that.  But  by  to-morrow  you'll  know  the  whole 
story.  It'll  be  healthier  for  all  hands  if  you  do." 

Vincenzo,  though,  didn't  have  a  proper  notion 
of  what  he  was  up  against.  Next  day  he  knew 
less  than  the  day  before.  He  was  ready  to  swear 
the  whole  outfit,  by  all  the  saints  in  the  chapel, 
that  there  hadn't  been  a  girl  on  the  premises. 

"Bring  him  along,  Shorty,"  says  the  Boss, 
starting  downstairs.  "There's  a  hole  in  the 
sub-cellar  that  I  want  this  old  pirate  to  look 
through." 

If  that  hole  had  been  cut  for  an  ash  chute  it 
was  a  dandy,  for  the  muzzle  of  it  was  a  mile  more  or 
less  from  anything  solider'n  air.  We  skewered 
Vincenzo 's  arms  to  the  small  of  his  back  and  let 
him  down  by  the  heels  until  he  had  a  bird's-eye 
view  of  three  counties.  Then  we  pulled  him  up 
and  tested  his  memory. 

It  worked  all  right.  That  upside-down  move- 
ment had  shook  up  his  thought  works.  He  was 
as  anxious  to  testify  as  the  front  benchers  at  a 
Bowery  mission  on  soup  day.  We  loosened  the 
cords  a  bit,  set  him  where  he  could  see  the  chute 
plain,  and  told  him  to  blaze  away. 

Lucky  the  Boss  knows  Eye-talyun,  for  old 
Vincenzo  couldn't  separate  himself  from  English 


48  SHORTY  McCABE 

fast  enough.  But  they  had  me  guessing  what  it 
was  all  about.  I  couldn't  make  out  why  the  old 
chap  had  to  use  up  all  the  dago  words  in  the  box 
just  to  tell  who  was  the  lady  that  had  the  private 
view.  Once  in  a  while  the  Boss  would  jab  in  a 
question,  and  then  old  Vincenzo  would  work  his 
jaw  all  the  faster.  When  it  was  all  over  the  Boss 
looks  at  me  as  pleased  as  though  he'd  got  money 
from  home,  and  says : 

"Shorty,  how's  your  nerve?" 

"Not  much  below  par,"  says  I.    "Why?" 

"Because,"  says  he,  "they're  after  us — brig- 
ands." 

"Brigands!"  says  I.  "Tut,  tut!  Don't  tell 
me  that  this  dead  and  alive  country  can  show  up 
anything  like  that." 

"It  can,"  says  he.  "The  woods  are  full  of 
'em." 

Then  he  gives  me  the  framework  of  what  old 
Vincenzo  had  been  telling  him.  The  prima 
donna  girl,  it  seems,  was  a  lady  brigandess,  daugh- 
ter of  the  heavy  villain  that  led  the  bunch.  She'd 
come  in  to  size  us  up  and  make  an  estimate  as 
to  what  we'd  fetch  on  a  forced  sale.  They  had 
spotted  us  from  the  time  we  registered  and  had  been 
hangin'  around  outside  laying  for  us  to  separate. 
Their  game  was  to  pinch  one  of  us  and  do  business 
with  the  other  on  a  cash  basis — wanted  some  one 


SHORTY  McCABE  49 

left  who  could  go  away  and  cash  a  check,  you  see. 
When  we  didn't  show  no  disposition  to  take  after 
dinner  promenades  or  before  breakfast  rambles 
they  ups  and  tell  Vincenzo  that  they  wants 
the  run  of  the  castle  and  promises  to  toast  his 
toes  if  they  don't  get  it. 

They  don't  have  to  promise  but  once,  for  Vin- 
cenzo has  been  through  the  mill.  It  was  this  kind 
of  work  that  had  queered  the  count.  According 
to  Vincenzo,  old  Blue  Beak  had  been  Pat-Crowed 
regular  every  season  for  five  summers,  and  the 
thing  had  got  on  his  nerves. 

Well,  Vincenzo  lets  three  or  four  of  'em  in  one 
day  just  as  the  Boss  and  me  were  swappin'  upper- 
cuts  and  body  punches  in  the  courtyard.  Maybe 
they  didn't  like  the  looks  of  things.  Anyway, 
they  hauled  off  and  sent  for  the  main  guy,  who 
was  busy  down  the  line  a-ways.  He  comes  up 
with  the  reserves,  and  his  first  move  is  to  send 
the  girl  in  to  get  a  line  on  us.  And  that  was  the 
way  things  stood  up  to  date. 

" Who'd  a  thought  it?"  says  I.  "The  way 
she  looked  at  you  I  suspicioned  she'd  marked  you 
out  as  something  good  to  eat." 

That  turned  the  Boss  red  behind  the  ears. 
"  I'm  afraid  we'll  have  to  ask  for  her  visiting  card 
the  next  time  she  calls,"  says  he.  "Come,  Vin- 
cenzo, I  want  you  to  show  me  about  locking  up." 


50  SHORTY  McCABE 

After  that  no  one  came  or  went  without  showing 
a  pass,  and  I  lugged  about  four  pounds  of  brass 
keys  around,  for  we  didn't  want  to  be  stood  up  by 
a  gang  of  moth-eaten  brigands  loaded  with  old 
hardware.  They  covered  close  by  day,  but  at 
night  we  could  see  'em  sneakin'  around  the  walls, 
like  a  bunch  of  second-story  men  new  to  their  job. 
Neither  the  Boss  nor  I  had  a  gun,  never  having  had 
a  call  for  such  a  thing,  but  we  found  a  couple  of 
old  blunderbusses  hung  up  in  the  hall,  reg'lar 
junkshop  relics,  and  we  unlimbered  them,  loading 
with  nails,  scrap  iron,  and  broken  glass.  'Course, 
we  couldn't  hit  anything  special,  but  it  broke  the 
monotony  for  both  sides.  Once  in  a  while  they'd 
shoot  back,  just  out  of  politeness,  but  I  don't 
believe  any  of  'em  ever  took  any  medal  at  a 
schuetzenfest. 

This  lasted  for  two  or  three  nights.  It  wasn't 
such  bad  fun,  either,  for  us.  The  party  of  the 
second  part,  though,  wasn't  off  on  a  vacation, 
like  we  were.  They  were  out  rustling  for  money 
to  pay  the  landlord  and  the  butcher,  and  they 
were  losing  time.  Hard  working  lot  of  brigands 
they  were,  too.  I  wouldn't  have  monkeyed 
around  after  dark  on  that  perpendicular  landscape 
for  twice  the  money,  and  I  don't  believe  any  of 
'em  drew  more  than  union  rates.  Fact  is,  I  was 
getting  to  feel  almost  sorry  for  'em,  when  one 


SHORTY  McCABE  51 

night  something  happened  to  give  me  the  marble 
heart. 

I'd  been  making  my  rounds  with  the  brass 
foundry,  seeing  that  all  the  tramp  chains  were  on, 
putting  out  the  cat,  and  coming  the  "Shore 
Acres"  act,  when  I  sees  something  dark  skiddoo 
across  the  court  to  where  the  Boss  stood  smoking 
in  the  moonshine  by  the  fountain.  I  does  a 
sprint,  too,  and  was  just  about  to  practise  a  little 
Eleventh  Avenue  jiu-jitsu  on  whoever  it  was — 
when  flip  goes  a  piece  of  black  lace,  and  there 
was  the  lady  brigandess,  some  out  of  breath,  but 
still  in  the  game. 

She  opens  up  on  the  Boss  in  a  stage  whisper 
that  whirls  him  around  as  if  he'd  been  on  a  string. 
Not  wantin'  to  butt  in  ahead  of  my  number,  I 
sort  of  loafed  around  just  outside  the  ropes,  but 
near  enough  to  block  a  foul.  Now,  I  don't  know 
just  all  they  said,  nor  how  they  said  it,  but  from 
what  the  Boss  told  me  afterward  they  must  have 
had  a  nice  little  confab  there  that  would  be  the 
real  thing  for  grand  opera  if  some  one  would  only 
set  it  to  music. 

Seems  that  she'd  found  out,  the  lady  brigandess 
had,  that  the  old  man's  gang  had  run  across  a 
bricked-up  passageway  down  in  one  corner  of  the 
basement,  a  kind  of  All-Goods-Must-Be-Delivered- 
Here  gate  that  had  been  thrown  into  the  discards. 


52  SHORTY  McCABE 

Of  course,  they'd  gone  to  work  to  open  It  up,  and 
they'd  got  as  far  as  some  iron  bars  that  called  for 
a  hack-saw.  They'd  sent  off  for  their  breaking 
and  entering  kit,  meaning  to  finish  the  job  next 
day.  The  following  night  they'd  planned  to 
drop  in  unexpected,  sew  the  Boss  up  in  his  blanket 
before  he  could  make  a  move,  and  cart  him  off 
until  I  could  bail  him  out  with  a  peck  or  so  of 
real  money. 

The  rest  of  the  scene  the  Boss  never  would  fill 
in  just  as  it  came  off  the  bat,  but  I  managed  to 
piece  out  that  the  brigandess,  sizing  us  up  for  a 
couple  of  pikers,  reckoned  that  we  wouldn't  pan 
out  much  cash,  and  that  the  Boss  might  be  used 
some  rough  by  the  gang.  That  prospect  not  set- 
ting well  on  her  mind,  she  rolls  out  the  back  door 
of  their  camp,  makes  a  swift  trip  around  to  our 
new  private  entrance,  squeezes  through  the  bars, 
and  comes  up  to  put  us  wise. 

Must  have  been  just  as  she'd  got  to  them  lines 
that  the  Boss  began  taking  a  good  look  at  her. 
I  saw  him  gazin'  into  her  eyes  like  he'd  taken  out 
a  search  warrant.  Don't  know  as  I  could  blame 
him  much,  either.  She  was  a  top  liner.  Wasn't 
anything  coy  or  kittenish  about  her.  She  stood 
up  and  gave  him  as  good  as  he  sent.  Next  I  see 
him  make  the  only  fool  play  but  one  that  I  ever 
knew  the  Boss  to  make — reg'lar  kid  trick. 


i 


SHORTY  McCABE  53 

"Here,"  says  he,  pulling  off  the  big  carbuncle 
ring  he  always  wears,  "  that's  to  remember  me  by." 

She  didn't  even  look  at  it.  No  joolry  for  hers. 
Instead,  she  says  something  kind  of  low  and  sassy, 
pokes  her  face  up,  and  begins  to  pucker. 

The  Boss  he  sort  of  side  steps  and  squints  over 
his  shoulder  at  me.  Now,  I'm  not  sayin'  what 
I'd  do  if  a  girl  like  that  gave  me  the  Cissy  Loftus 
eye.  It  ain't  up  to  me.  But  I  know  what  I'd 
want  the  crowd  to  do — and  I  did  it. 

When  I  turned  around  again  they  was  just  at 
the  breakaway,  so  it  must  have  been  one  of  the 
by-by  forever  kind,  such  as  you  see  at  the  dock 
on  sailing  day.  Then  she  took  us  down  to  show 
us  how  she  came  in,  and  squeezed  herself  through 
the  bars.  They  shook  hands  just  once,  and  that 
was  all. 

That  night  there  was  a  grand  [howl  from  the 
brigands.  They  had  put  in  hours  of  real  work,  the 
kind  they'd  figured  on  cutting  out  after  they  got 
into  the  brigand  business,  only  to  run  into  a 
burglar-proof  shutter  which  we  had  put  up.  They 
pranced  around  to  the  front  gate  and  shook  their 
fists  at  us,  and  called  us  American  pigs,  and 
invited  us  to  come  out  and  have  our  ears  trimmed, 
and  a  lot  of  nonsense  like  that.  I  wanted  to 
turn  loose  the  blunderbusses,  but  the  Boss  said: 
"No,  let  'em  enjoy  themselves." 


54  SHORTY  McCABE 

"  How  long  do  you  suppose  they'll  keep  that  sort 
of  thing  up?"  says  I. 

"  Vincenzo  says  some  of  them  will  stay  around  all 
summer  unless  we  buy  them  off,"  says  he. 

"That's  lovely,"  says  I,  "for  anyone  that's 
dead  gone  on  the  life  here." 

"I'm  not,"  says  he.  "I  can't  get  out  of  here 
too  quick,  now." 

"Oh,  ho!"  says  I,  meaning  not  much  of  any- 
thing. 

Being  kept  awake  some  by  their  racket  that 
night,  I  got  to  thinking  how  we  could  give  that 
gang  of  grafters  the  double  cross.  There  wasn't 
any  use  making  a  back-alley  dash  for  it,  as  we 
didn't  know  the  lay  of  the  land  and  they  were 
between  us  and  New  York.  But  most  of  the 
fancy  thinking  I've  ever  done  has  been  along 
that  line — how  to  get  back  to  Broadway.  Along 
toward  morning  I  throws  five  aces  at  a  flip — 
turns  up  an  idee  that  had  been  at  the  bottom  of 
the  deck.  "It's  a  winner!"  says  I,  and  goes  to 
sleep  happy. 

After  breakfast  I  digs  through  my  steamer 
trunk  and  hauls  out  a  four-ounce  can  of  aluminum 
paint  that  the  intelligent  Mr.  'Ankins  had  mis- 
took for  shavin'  soap  and  put  in  before  we  left 
home.  Then  I  picks  out  a  couple  of  suits  of  that 
tin  armor  in  the  hall,  a  medium-sized  one,  and  a 


SHORTY  McCABE  55 

short-legged,  forty-fat  outfit,  and  I  gets  busy  with 
my  brush. 

"What's  up?"  says  the  Boss,  seeing  me  slinging 
on  the  aluminum  paint. 

"  Been  readin'  a  piece  on  '  How  to  Beautify  the 
House'    in    the    ' Ladies'    Home    Companion,' ' 
says  I.    "Got  any  burnt-orange  ribbon   about 
you?" 

It  was  a  three-hour  job,  but  when  I  was  through 
I'd  renovated  up  that  cast-off  toggery  so  that  it 
looked  as  good  as  if  it  had  been  just  picked  from 
the  bargain  counter.  Then  I  waited  for  things 
to  turn  up.  The  brigands  opened  the  ball  as 
soon  as  it  was  dark.  They'd  rigged  up  a  battering- 
ram  and  allowed  they  meant  to  smash  in  OUT  front 
door.  The  Boss  laughed. 

"  That  gate  looks  as  if  it  had  stood  a  lot  of  that 
kind  of  boy's  play,  and  I  guess  it's  good  for  a  lot 
more,"  says  he.  "Now,  if  they  were  not  hope- 
lessly medieval  they  would  try  a  stick  of  dyna- 
mite." 

We  could  have  poured  hot  water  down  on  them, 
or  dropped  a  few  bricks,  but  we  didn't.  We 
just  let  them  skin  their  knuckles  and  strain  their 
backs  on  the  battering-ram.  About  moonrise 
I  sprung  my  scheme. 

"  What  do  you  say  to  throwing  a  scare  into  that 
bunch  of  back  numbers?"  says  I. 


56  SHORTY  McCABE 

"How?"  says  the  Boss. 

I  led  him  down  to  the  court,  where  I'd  laid 
out  the  plated  tinware  to  dry. 

"Think  you  can  fit  yourself  into  some  of  that 
boiler  plate?"  says  I. 

That  hit  the  Boss  in  the  short  ribs.  We  tackled 
the  job  off-hand,  me  strappin'  a  section  on  him, 
and  he  clampin'  another  on  me.  It  was  like 
dressing  for  a  masquerade  in  the  dark,  neither  of 
us  ever  having  worn  steel  boots  or  Harveyized 
vests  before.  Some  of  the  joints  didn't  seem  to 
fit  any  too  close,  and  a  lot  of  it  I  suppose  we  got 
on  hindside  front  and  upside  down,  but  in  the 
course  of  half  an  hour  we  were  harnessed  for  fair; 
including  a  conning  tower  apiece  on  our  heads. 
Then  we  did  the  march  past  just  to  see  how  we 
looked. 

"With  a  little  white  muslin  you'd  do  to  go  on 
as  the  ghost  in  '  Hamlet,'  "  says  the  Boss,  through 
his  front  bars. 

"You  sound  like  a  junk  wagon  comin'  down 
the  street,"  says  I,  "and  you're  a  fair  imitation 
of  a  tinshop  on  parade.  Shall  we  go  for  a  mid- 
night stroll?" 

"I'm  ready,"  says  the  Boss. 

Grabbing  up  a  couple  of  two-handed  skull 
splitters  that  I'd  laid  out  to  finish  our  cos-tumes, 
we  swung  open  the  gate  and  sasshayed  out,  calm 


SHORTY  McCABE  57 

and  dignified,  into  the  middle  of  that  bunch  of 
brigands. 

It  wasn't  hardly  a  square  deal,  of  course,  they 
being  brought  up  on  a  steady  diet  of  ghost  stories; 
and  I  reckon  there  was  a  spooky  look  about  us 
that  sent  a  frappe*  wireless  up  and  down  those 
dago  spines.  But,  after  all,  it  was  the  banana 
oil  the  aluminum  paint  was  mixed  with  that  turned 
the  trick.  Smelled  it,  haven't  you?  If  there's 
any  perfume  fitter  for  a  lost  soul  than  attar  of 
banana  oil,  it  hasn't  been  discovered.  First 
they  went  bug-eyed.  Next  they  sniffed.  At 
the  second  sniff  one  big  duffer,  with  rings  in  his 
ears  and  a  fine  assortment  of  second-hand  pepper- 
boxes in  his  sash,  digs  up  a  scared  yell  that  would 
have  done  credit  to  one  of  these  Wuxtre-e-e! 
Wuxtre-e-el  boys,  and  then  he  skiddoos  into  the 
rocks  like  some  one  had  tied  a  can  to  him.  That 
set  'em  all  off,  same's  when  you  light  the  green 
cracker  at  the  end  of  the  bunch.  Some  yelled, 
some  groaned,  and  some  made  no  remarks.  But 
they  faded.  Inside  of  two  minutes  by  the  clock 
we  had  the  front  yard  to  ourselves. 

" Curtain!"  says  I  to  the  Boss.  "This  is 
where  we  do  a  little  disappearing  ourselves,  before 
they  get  curious  and  come  back." 

We  hustled  into  the  castle,  pried  ourselves 
out  of  our  tin  roofing,  chucked  our  dunnage  into 


58  SHORTY  McCABE 

old  Blue  Beak's  best  carryall,  hitched  a  couple 
of  auction-house  steppers,  and  lit  out  on  the  town 
trail  without  so  much  as  stopping  to  shake  a  da-da 
to  old  Vincenzo. 

I  didn't  breathe  real  deep,  though,  until  we'd 
fetched  sight  of  a  little  place  where  the  mountain 
left  off  and  the  dago  police  were  supposed  to 
begin.  Just  before  we  got  to  the  first  house  we 
sees  something  up  on  a  rock  at  one  side  of  the 
road.  Day  was  comin',  red  and  sudden,  and  we 
saw  who  it  was  on  the  rock— the  lady  brigandess. 
Sure  thing! 

Now  don't  tax  me  with  how  she  got  there.  I'd 
quit  trying  to  keep  cases  on  her.  But  there  she 
was  waiting  for  us.  As  we  got  in  line  she  glued 
her  eyes  on  the  Boss  and  tossed  him  a  lip-thriller 
with  a  real  Juliet-Roxane  movement.  And  the 
Boss  blew  one  back.  Well,  that  suited  me,  all 
right,  so  far  as  it  went.  But  as  we  made  for  a 
turn  in  the  road  the  Boss  reached  out  for  the 
lines  and  pulled  in  our  pair  of  skates.  Then  he 
turns  and  looks  back.  So  did  I.  She  was  still 
there,  for  a  fact,  and  it  kind  of  looked  as  if  she 
was  holding  her  arms  out  toward  him. 

"  By  God,  Shorty/'  says  the  Boss,  breathing  quick 
and  talking  through  his  teeth,  "  I'm  going  back." 

"Sure,"  says  I,  "to  New  York,"  and  I  had  a 
half-Nelson  on  him  before  he  knew  it  was  coming. 


SHORTY  McCABE  59 

We  went  four  miles  that  way,  too,  the  horses 
finding  the  road,  before  I  dared  let  him  up.  I 
looked  for  trouble  then.  But  it  had  been  all  over 
in  a  breath,  just  an  open-and-shut  piece  of  batti- 
ness,  same  as  fellers  have  when  they  jump  a 
bridge.  He  was  meek  enough  the  rest  of  the  way, 
but  sore.  I  couldn't  pry  a  word  out  of  him 
anyway.  Not  until  we  got  settled  down  in  the 
smoking-room  of  a  Mediterranean  steamer  headed 
for  Sandy  Hook  did  he  shake  his  trance. 

"  Shorty, "  says  he,  givin'  me  the  friendly  palm, 
"I  owe  you  a  lot  more  than  apologies." 

"Well,  I  ain't  no  collection  agency,"  says  I. 
"Sponge  it  off." 

"I  was  looking  for  the  Elixir,"  says  he,  "and — 
and  I  found  it." 

"I  can  get  all  the  'Lixir  I  want,"  says  I,  "be- 
tween the  East  River  and  the  North,  and  I  don't 
need  no  cork-puller,  either." 

That's  me.  I've  been  back  a  week  now,  and 
even  the  screech  of  the  L  trains  sounds  good. 
Everything  looks  good,  and  smells  good,  and  feels 
good.  You  don't  have  to  pinch  yourself  to  find 
out  whether  or  not  you're  alive.  You  know 
all  the  time  that  you're  in  New  York,  where  there's 
somethin'  doin'  twenty  hours  in  the  day. 

It'ly!  Oh,  yes,  I  want  to  go  there  again— when 
I  get  to  be  a  mummy. 


CHAPTER  III 

SAY,  you  can't  always  tell,  can  you?  Here  a 
couple  of  weeks  back  I  thought  I'd  wiped  It'ly 
off  the  map.  We'd  settled  down  in  this  little 
old  burg,  me  and  the  Boss  and  Mister  'Ankins, 
nice  and  comfortable,  and  not  too  far  from  Broad- 
way. And  we  was  havin'  our  four  o'clock  teas 
with  the  mitts,  as  reg'lar  as  if  there  was  money 
comin'  to  us  for  each  round,  when  this  here 
Sherlock  proposition  turns  up. 

Mister  'Ankins,  he  was  the  first  to  spot  it,  and 
he  comes  trottin'  in  where  we  was  prancin'  around 
the  mat,  his  jaw  loose,  and  his  eyebrows  propped 
up  like  Eddie  Foy's  when  he  wears  his  salary  face. 

"Hit's  most  hunnacountable,  sir,"  says  he. 

"Time  out!"  says  I,  blockin'  the  Boss's  pet 
upper  cut.  "Mister  'Ankins  seems  to  have 
something  on  the  place  where  his  mind  ought  to 
be." 

"Hankins,"  says  the  Boss,  putting  down  his 
guard  reluctant,  "haven't  I  told  you  never  to — " 

"Yes,  sir;  yes,  sir,"  says  Mister  'Ankins,  "but 
there's  that  houtrageous  thing  fawst  to  the  door 
and,  Lor'  'elp  me,  sir,  Hi  cawnt  pull  it  hoff." 

The  Boss  he  looks  at  me,  and  I  looks  at  the  Boss, 
and  then  we  both  looks  at  Mister  'Ankins.  Seein' 
as  how  he  couldn't  reveal  much  with  that  cheese 


SHORTY  McCABE  61 

pie  face  of  his,  we  goes  and  takes  a  look  at  the 
door.  It  was  the  outside  one,  just  as  you  gets 
off  the  elevator. 

And  there  was  something  there,  too;  the  diz- 
ziest kind  of  a  visitin'  card  that  was  ever  handed 
out,  I  suspicion,  in  those  particular  swell  chambers 
for  single  gents.  It  was  a  cuff,  just  a  plain,  every 
day  wrist  chafer,  pinned  up  with  the  wickedest 
little  blood  letter  that  ever  came  off  the  knife 
rack.  Half  an  inch  of  the  blade  stuck  through  the 
panel,  so  the  one  who  put  it  there  must  have 
meant  that  it  shouldn't  blow  away.  The  Boss 
jerks  it  loose,  sizes  it  up  a  minute,  and  says: 

"Stiletto,  eh?  Made  in  Firenze— that's  Flor- 
ence. Shorty,  have  you  any  friends  from  abroad 
that  are  in  the  habit  of  leaving  their  cutlery 
around  promiscuous?" 

"  I  know  folks  as  far  west  as  Hoboken,  if  that's 
what  you  mean,"  says  I,  "but  there  ain't  none 
of  them  in  the  meat  business." 

Well,  we  takes  the  thing  inside  under  the  bunch 
light  and  has  another  squint. 

"Here's  writin'  in  red  ink,"  says  I,  and  holds 
up  the  cuff. 

"Read  it,"  says  the  Boss. 

"I  could  play  it  better  on  a  flute,"  says  I. 
"You  try." 

We  didn't  have  to  try  hard.    The  minute  he 


62  SHORTY  McCABE 

skinned  his  eye  over  that  his  jaw  goes  loose  like 
he'd  stopped  a  body  wallop  with  his  short  ribs. 

"It's  Tuscan,"  says  he,  "and  it  means  that 
someone's  in  trouble  and  wants  help." 

"Do  they  take  this  for  police  headquarters, 
or  a  Charity  Organization?"  says  I.  "Looks  to 
me  like  a  new  kind  of  wireless  from  the  wash  lady. 
Why  don't  you  pay  her?" 

"That's  one  of  my  cuffs,"  says  the  Boss. 

"It's  too  well  ventilated  to  get  into  the  bag 
again,"  says  I. 

"Shorty,"  says  he,  lettin'  my  Joe- Weber  go 
over  his  shoulder,  "do  you  know  where  I  saw 
thatcufflast?  It  was  in  North  Italy!" 

Then  he  figured  out  by  the  queer  laundry 
marks  just  where  he'd  shed  this  identical  piece 
of  his  trousseau.  We'd  left  it,  with  a  few  momen- 
toes  just  as  valuable,  when  we  made  that  quick 
move  away  from  that  punky  old  palace  after  our 
little  monkey  shine  with  the  brigands. 

"You  don't  mean — ?"  says  I.  But  there 
wa'n't  no  use  wasting  breath  on  that  question. 
He  was  blushin'.  We  fiddled  some  on  its  having 
come  from  old  Vincenzo,  or  maybe  from  Blue 
Beak,  the  Count  that  rented  us  the  place;  but 
the  minute  we  tied  that  cuff  up  with  the  castle 
we  knew  that  the  one  who  sent  it  meant  to  ring 
up  a  hurry  call  on  us  for  help,  and  that  it  wasn't 


SHORTY  McCABE  63 

anybody  but  the  Lady  Brigandess  herself,  the 
one  that  put  us  next  and  kept  the  Boss  from 
being  sewed  up  in  a  blanket. 

"That's  a  Hey  Rube  for  me,"  says  I.  "How 
about-cher?" 

But  the  Boss  was  kicking  off  his  gym.  shoes 
and  divin'  through  his  shirt.  In  five  minutes 
by  the  watch  we  were  dressed  for  slootin'. 

"I  know  a  Dago  roundsman — "  says  I. 

"No  police  in  this,"  says  the  Boss. 

"Guess  you're  right,"  says  I.  "Too  much 
limelight  and  too  little  headwork.  We'll  cut  the 
cops  out.  Where  to  first?" 

"I'm  going  to  call  on  the  Italian  consul,"  says 
the  Boss.  "He's  a  friend  of  mine." 

So  we  opened  the  sloot  business  with  a  ride  in 
one  of  those  heavy  weight  'lectric  hansoms, 
telling  the  throttle  pusher  to  shove  her  wide  open. 
Maybe  we  broke  the  speed  ord'nance  some,  but 
we  caught  Mr.  Consul  on  the  fly,  just  as  he  was 
punchuV  the  time  card.  He  wore  a  rich  set  of 
Peter  Cooper  whiskers,  but  barring  them  he  was 
a  well  finished  old  gent,  with  a  bow  that  was  an 
address  of  welcome  all  by  itself.  The  way  that 
he  shoved  out  leather  chairs  you'd  thought  he 
was  makin'  a  present  of  'em  to  us. 

But  the  Boss  hadn't  any  time  to  waste  on 
flourishes.  We  got  right  down  to  cases.  He 


64  SHORTY  McCABE 

wanted  to  know  about  where  the  Tuscans  usually 
headed  for  when  they  left  Ellis  Island,  what 
sort  of  gangs  they  had  in  New  York  and  what 
kind  of  Black  Hand  deviltry  they  were  most 
given  to.  He  asked  a  hundred  questions  and 
never  answered  one.  Then  he  shook  hands  with 
Mr.  Consul  and  we  chased  out. 

"It  looks  like  the  Malabistos,"  says  the  Boss. 
"  They  have  a  kind  of  headquarters  over  a  base- 
ment restaurant.  Perhaps  they've  shut  her  up 
there.  We'll  take  a  look  at  the  place  anyway." 

A  lot  of  good  it  did  us,  too.  The  spaghetti 
works  was  in  full  blast,  with  a  lot  of  husky  low- 
brows goin'  in  and  out,  smokin'  cheroots  half  as 
long  as  your  arm,  and  acting  as  if  the  referee  had 
just  declared  a  draw.  The  opening  for  a  couple 
of  bare  fisted  investigators  wasn't  what  you 
might  call  promisin'.  Not  having  their  grips 
and  passwords,  we  didn't  feel  as  though  we  could 
make  good  in  their  lodge. 

"I  could  round  up  a  gang  and  then  we  could 
rush  'em,"  says  I. 

"That  wouldn't  do,"  says  the  Boss.  "Strategy 
is  what  we  need  here." 

"I'm  just  out  of  that,"  says  I. 

"Perhaps  there's  a  back  door,"  says  the  Boss. 

So  we  moseys  around  tlie  block,  huntin'  for  a 
family  entrance.  But  that  &ln't  the  way  they 


SHORTY  McCABE  65 

build  down  in  Mulberry  Bend.  They  chucks 
their  old  rookeries  slam  up  against  one  another,  to 
keep  'em  from  f  allin'  over,  I  guess.  Generally  though, 
there's  some  sort  of  garlic  flue  through  the  middle 
of  the  block,  but  you  need  a  balloon  to  find  it* 

"Hist!"  says  I.  "Hold  me  head  while  I 
thinks  a  thunk.  Didn't  I  come  down  here  once 
to  watch  a  try-out?  Sure!  And  it  was  pulled 
off  in  the  palatial  parlors  of  Appetite  Joe  Cardenzo's 
Chowder  Association,  the  same  being  a  back  room 
two  flights  up.  Now  if  we  could  dig  up  Appetite 
Joe—" 

We  did.  He  was  around  the  corner  playing 
'scope  for  brandied  plums,  but  he  let  go  the 
cards  long  enough  to  listen  to  my  fairy  tale  about 
wantin'  a  joint  where  I  could  give  my  friend  a 
private  lesson. 

"Sure!"  said  Joe,  passing  out  the  key,  "but 
you  breaka  da  chair  I  charga  feefty  cent." 

There  were  two  back  windows  and  the  view 
wasn't  one  you'd  want  to  put  in  a  frame.  Down 
below  was  a  court  filled  with  coal  boxes  and  old 
barrels,  and  perfumed  like  the  lee  side  of  Barren 
Island.  But  catty-corners  across  was  the  back 
of  that  spaghetti  mill.  We  could  tell  it  by  the 
two-decker  bill  board  on  the  roof.  In  the  upper 
windows  we  could  see  Dago  women  and  kids, 
but  the  windows  on  the  second  floor  were  black. 


66  SHORTY  McCABE 

"Iron  shutters,"  says  the  Boss.  "And  that's 
where  she  is  if  anywhere." 

"Got  a  sealin'  ladder  and  a  jimmy  in  your 
pocket? "  says  I.  "  Then  I'll  have  to  run  around  to 
a  three  ball  exchange  and  see  if  I  can't  dig  up  an 
outfit." 

A  patent  fire  escape  and  a  short  handled  pick- 
axe was  the  best  I  could  do.  We  made  the 
board  jumper  fast  inside  and  down  I  went.  Then 
there  was  acrobatics;  swingin'  across  to  that 
three  inch  window  ledge,  balancin'  with  one 
foot  on  nothing,  and  single  hand  work  with 
the  pick-axe.  Lucky  that  shutter-bar  was  half 
rusted  away.  She  came  open  with  a  bang  when 
she  did  come,  and  it  near  sent  me  down  into  the 
barrels.  Me  eyelashes  held  though,  and  there  I 
was,  up  against  a  window. 

"See  anything?"  says  the  Boss. 

"Room  to  rent,"  says  I,  for  it  looked  like  we'd 
pried  open  a  vacant  flat. 

Just  then  the  sash  goes  up  and  something  shiny 
glitters  in  the  dark.  I  was  just  lettin'  go  with  one 
hand  to  swing  for  a  head  when  someone  lets  loose 
a  Dago  remark  that  was  mighty  business  like  and 
more  or  less  familiar. 

"Is  it  you?"  says  I.  "If  you're  the  Lady 
Brigandess  own  up  sudden." 

"Ah-h-h!"  says  she,  thankful  like,  as  if  she'd 


SHORTY  McCABE  67 

seen  her  horse  win  by  a  nose.  Then  she  puts  up 
the  rib  tickler  and  grabs  me  by  the  wrist. 

"Guess  your  lady  friend's  here,"  I  sings  out  to 
the  Boss. 

"Have  you  got  her?"  says  he. 

"No,"  says  I;  "she's  got  me." 

But  no  sooner  does  she  hear  him  than  she  lets 
go  of  me,  shoves  her  head  out  of  the  window  and 
calls  up  to  him.  The  Boss  says  something  back 
and  for  the  next  two  minutes  they  swaps  Dago 
talk  to  beat  the  cars. 

"How  shall  I  pass  her  up?"  says  I. 

Just  then  she  made  a  spring  for  that  rope 
ladder  of  ours  and  overhands  up  like  a  trapeze 
star.  An'  me  thinkin'  we'd  need  a  derrick  or  a 
bo's'n's  chair  1 

It  wa'n't  no  time  for  reunions  at  that  stage  of  the 
game,  nor  for  hard  luck  stories,  either.  None  of 
us  was  pining  to  hold  any  sociables  with  the 
Malabistos.  We  quit  the  chowder  club  on  the 
jump,  streaked  up  the  hill  into  Mott  street,  and 
piled  into  one  of  those  fuzzy  two  horse  chariots 
that  they  keep  hooked  up  for  weddin's  and  funerals. 

"Where  to?"  says  the  bone  thumper. 

"Head  her  for  Buffalo  and  let  loose  to  beat 
the  Empire  State  express,"  says  I,  "but  hunt  for 
asphalt." 

That  fetched  us  up  Second  Avenue,  but  there 


68  SHORTY  McCABE 

wasn't  any  conversin'  done  until  we'd  put  fifty 
blocks  behind  us.  Then  I  reckon  the  Boss  asked 
the  Lady  Brigandess  if  she'd  missed  any  meals 
lately.  From  the  way  he  gave  orders  to  steer 
for  a  food  refinery  she  must  have  allowed  that  she 
had. 

Not  having  time  to  be  particular,  we  hit  a 
goulash  emporium  where  they  spell  the  meat 
card  mostly  with  cz's.  But  they  gave  us  a  private 
room  upstairs,  which  was  what  we  wanted.  And 
it  wasn't  until  we  got  inside  that  we  had  a  full 
length  view  of  her.  Say,  I  was  glad  we'd  landed 
so  far  east  of  Broadwav.  Post  me  for  a  welcher 
if  she  wasn't  rigged  out  in  the  same  kind  of  a 
chorus  costume  that  she  wore  when  we  saw  her 
last,  over  there  in  It'ly!  Only  it  was  more  so. 
It  was  the  kind  of  costume  that'd  been  all  right 
on  a  cigarette  card,  or  outside  a  Luna  Park  joint, 
and  it  would  have  let  her  into  the  Ajion  ball 
without  a  ticket;  but  it  wasn't  built  for  circu- 
latin'  'round  New  York  in. 

" Piffle  1  Piffle!"  says  I  to  the  Boss.  "They'll 
think  we've  pinched  her  out  of  a  Kiralfy  ballet. 
Hadn't  we  better  send  for  yer  lady-fren's  trunk?" 

The  Boss  grinned,  but  he  looked  her  over  as 
satisfied  as  if  she'd  been  dressed  accordin'  to  his 
own  water  color  sketches.  She  was  something 
of  a  star,  yes,  yes!  If  you  were  lookin'  for  figure 


SHORTY  McCABE  69 

and  condition,  she  had  'em.  And  when  it  came 
to  the  color  scheme— well,  no  grease  paint  manip- 
ulator ever  mixed  caffy-o-lay  and  raspb'ry  pink 
the  way  it  grew  on  her.  For  a  made-in-It'ly 
girl  she  was  the  real  meringue. 

"We'll  see  about  clothes  later,"  says  the  Boss, 
and  ordered  up  seventeen  kinds  of  sckeezedsky, 
to  be  served  in  relays. 

She  brought  her  appetite  with  her,  all  right, 
even  if  she  had  mislaid  her  suit  case.  And, 
while  she  was  pitchin'  into  what  passes  for  grub 
on  Second  Avenue,  she  told  the  Boss  the  story  of 
her  life.  Leastways,  that's  what  it  sounded  like 
to  me. 

The  way  I  gets  it  from  the  Boss  was  like  this: 
Her  father,  the  old  brigand  pantanta,  couldn't 
get  over  the  way  we'd  bansheed  his  bunch  of  third 
rate  kidnappers  with  our  tin  armor  play.  He 
accumulated  a  sort  of  ingrowin'  grouch  and 
soured  on  the  whole  push  because  they  wouldn't 
turn  state's  evidence  as  to  who  had  given  us  the 
dope  to  do  'em. 

The  Lady  Brigandess  she  had  stood  that  for  a 
while,  until  one  day  she  gets  her  Irish  up,  tells 
the  old  man  how  she  tipped  us  off  herself,  and 
then  makes  tracks  out  of  the  country.  One  way 
and  another  she'd  heard  a  lot  about  America. 
So  she  takes  out  yellow  tickets  on  a  few  spare 


70  SHORTY  McCABE 

sparks  and  buys  a  steerage  berth  for  New 
York. 

Well,  she  hadn't  more'n  got  past  Sandy  Hook 
before  a  Malabisto  runner  spotted  her.  So  did 
the  advance  man  of  another  gang.  They  sized  up 
the  gold  hoops  in  her  ears,  her  real  money  necklace 
and  some  of  the  other  furniture  she  sported,  and 
they  invited  her  home  to  tea.  Just  how  the 
scrap  began  or  what  it  was  all  about  she  didn't 
know,  so  the  story  by  rounds  hasn't  been  told. 
The  next  thing  she  knew  though,  they'd  hustled 
her  into  the  Bend  and  bottled  her  up  in  that 
back  room,  but  not  before  she'd  done  a  little 
extemporaneous  carvin'  on  her  own  account.  I 
gathered  that  three  or  four  of  the  Malabistos 
needed  some  plain  sewin'  done  on  'em  after  the 
bell  rang,  and  that  the  rest  wasn't  so  anxious  for 
her  society  as  at  first.  She'd  been  cooped  up  for 
two  days  when  she  managed  to  get  hold  of  a  Dago 
woman  who  promised  to  carry  that  cuff  to  the 
place  where  old  Vincenzo  had  told  her  we  hung 
out  in  New  York. 

"So  far  it's  as  good  as  playin'  leading  heavy  in 
'The  Shadows  of  a  Great  City/"  says  I,  "but 
what's  down  for  the  next  act?  Where  does  she 
want  to  go  now?" 

Say,  you'd  thought  the  Boss  had  been  nipped 
with  the  goods  on.  He  goes  strawb'ry  color 


SHORTY  McCABE  71 

back  to  his  ears.  Next  he  takes  a  look  across  the 
table  at  her  where  she  sits,  quiet  and  easy,  and  as 
much  to  home  as  Lady  Graftwad  on  the  back 
seat  of  the  tonneau.  She  was  takin'  notice  of 
him,  too,  kind  of  runnin'  over  his  points  like  he 
was  something  rich  she'd  won  at  a  raffle  and  was 
glad  to  get.  But  the  Boss  he  braced  up  and 
looked  me  straight  in  the  eye. 

"  Shorty,"  says  he,  "  I  want  to  call  your  attention 
to  the  fact  that  this  young  lady  is  something  like 
three  thousand  miles  from  home,  that  we're  the 
only  two  human  beings  on  this  side  of  the  ocean 
she  knows  by  sight,  and  that  once  she  risked  a 
good  deal  to  do  us  a  service." 

"I'll  put  my  name  to  all  that,"  says  I,  "but 
what  does  it  lead  up  to;  where  do  we  exit?" 

"That,"  says  the  Boss,  "is  a  conundrum." 

"Ain't  she  got  any  programme?"  says  I. 

"  She  -  er  -  that  is,"  says  the  Boss,  trying  to 
duck,  "she  says  she  wants  to  go  with  us." 

"Whe-e-e-ew!"  says  I,  through  my  front  teeth. 
"This  is  so  sudden.  Just  tell  the  lady,  will  you, 
that  I've  resigned." 

"  No  you  don't,  Shorty,"  says  the  Boss.  "  You'll 
see  this  thing  through." 

"  But  look  at  them  circus  clothes,"  says  I.  "  I've 
got  no  aunts  or  grandmothers,  or  second  cousins 
that  I  could  unload  a  Lady  Brigandess  on." 


72  SHORTY  McCABE 

"  Nor  I,"  says  the  Boss. 

But  he  didn't  look  half  so  worried  as  he  might. 
Say,  when  I  came  to  figure  out  what  we  were 
up  against,  I  could  feel  little  cold  storage  whiffs 
on  my  shoulder  blades.  Suppose  someone  should 
meet  you  in  the  middle  of  Herald  Square,  hand 
you  a  ring-tailed  tiger,  and  then  skiddoo.  What? 
That  would  be  an  easy  one  compared  to  our 
proposition.  It  wasn't  a  square  deal  to  shake 
her,  and  she'd  made  up  her  mind  not  to  stay  put 
anywhere  again. 

"Wait  here  until  I  telephone  someone,"  says  the 
Boss. 

"De-lighted!"  says  I.  "Better  ring  up  the 
Gerry  Society,  too,  while  you're  about  it.  They 
might  help  us  out." 

The  Lady  Brigandess  and  I  didn't  have  a  real 
sociable  time  while  the  Boss  was  gone.  I  could 
see  she  was  watchin'  every  move  I  made,  as  much 
as  to  say,  "You  can't  lose  me,  Charlie."  It 
was  just  as  cheery  as  waitin'  in  the  Sergeant's 
room  for  bail. 

When  the  Boss  does  show  up  he  wears  a  regular 
breakfast  food  smile  that  made  me  leary,  for 
when  he  looks  tickled  it  don't  signify  that  things 
are  coming  his  way.  Generally  it  only  means  that 
he's  goin'  to  break  out  in  a  new  spot. 

"It  just  occurred  to  me,"  says  he,  "that  I  had 


SHORTY  McCABE  73 

accepted  an  invitation  from  the  Van  Urbans 
for  the  opera." 

"What  kind  of  a  bluff  did  you  throw?"  says  I. 

"None  at  all,  Shorty/'  says  he.  "I  just  asked 
if  they  would  have  room  for  three,  and  they  said 
they  would." 

Say,  the  Boss  don't  need  no  nerve  tonic,  does  he? 
You  know  about  the  Van  Urbans,  don't  you? 
They  weigh  in  at  something  like  forty  millions 
and  are  a  good  fifth  on  Mrs.  Astor's  list. 

"Straight  goods,  now,"  says  I,  "you  don't 
reckon  to  spring  this  aggregation  on  the  diamond 
horse-shoe,  do  you?" 

"We  must  put  in  the  time  somehow,"  says  he. 

I  thought  it  might  be  all  a  grand  josh,  until  I'd 
watched  some  of  his  moves.  First  we  drives  over 
to  Fift'  avenue  and  stops  at  one  of  those  places 
where  it  says  "Robes"  on  a  brass  plate  outside. 
The  Boss  stays  in  there  four  minutes  and  comes 
out  with  a  piece  of  dry  goods  that  they  must  have 
stood  him  up  a  hundred  for — kind  of  an  opera 
cloak,  ulster  length,  all  rustly  black  silk  outside 
and  white  inside.  The  Lady  Brigandess  she  puts 
it  on  with  no  more  fuss  than  as  if  she'd  been 
brought  up  on  such  things  and  had  ordered  this 
one  a  month  ahead. 

Next  we  heads  for  our  own  quarters,  having 
shifted  our  Mott  street  chariot  for  the  real  article, 


74  SHORTY  McCABE 

with  rubber  tires  and  silver  plated  lamps.  About 
that  time  I  got  wise  to  the  fact  that  the  Boss  and 
her  Ladyship  were  ringin'  me  into  their  talk,  and 
I  was  gettin'  curious.  I  see  the  Boss  shaking 
his  head  like  he  was  tryin'  to  prove  an  alibi,  and 
every  once  in  a  while  pointin'  to  me.  First 
thing  I  knows  she'd  quit  his  side  of  the  carriage 
and  was  snugglin'  up  alongside  of  me,  and  cooin' 
away  in  some  outlandish  kind  of  baby  talk  that 
I  was  glad  I  didn't  savvy.  I  made  no  kick  though, 
until  she  begins  to  pat  me  on  the  head. 

"Call  her  off,  will  you?"  says  I.  "I'm  no  lost 
kid." 

"The  young  lady  is  just  expressing  her  thanks," 
says  the  Boss,  "  to  the  gallant  young  hero  who  so 
nobly  rescued  her  from  the  Malabistos.  Don't 
shy,  Shorty;  she  says  that  anyone  so  brave  as 
you  are  needn't  worry  about  not  being  handsome." 

He  was  kiddin'  me,  see?  I  knew  he'd  given 
her  some  fairy  tale  or  other,  but  I  didn't  have  any 
come  back  that  she  could  understand.  I  felt 
like  a  monkey  though,  having  my  hair  mussed 
and  thinkin'  maybe  next  minute  she'd  give  me 
the  knife.  And  the  Boss  he  sat  there  grinnin' 
like  a  Jack  lantern. 

I  didn't  get  a  chance  to  break  away  until  we 
got  to  our  own  ranch.  Then  we  left  her  sitting 
in  the  buggy  while  we  went  up  to  make  a  lightnin' 


SHORTY  McCABE  75 

change.  Sure,  I've  got  a  head  waiter's  rig;  bought 
it  the  time  I  had  to  lead  off  the  grand  march  at 
the  Tim  Grogan  Association's  tenth  annual  ball, 
but  I  never  looked  to  wear  it  out  attendin'  grand 
opera. 

"I  hope  the  Van  Urbans  will  appreciate  that 
I'm  givin'  'em  a  treat,"  says  I. 

"They'll  be  blind  if  they  don't/'  says  the  Boss. 
"Is  it  your  collar  that  hurts?" 

"No,  it's  the  shoes,"  says  I,  "but  the  pain'll 
numb  down  by  the  time  we  get  there." 

We  made  our  grand  entry  about  the  end  of  the 
second  spasm.  The  Van  Urbans  had  taken  their 
corners.  There  was  Papa  Van  Urban,  lookin' 
like  ready  money;  and  Mamma  Van  Urban, 
made  up  regardless;  and  Sis  Van  Urban,  one  of 
those  tall  Gainsborough  girls  that  any  piker 
could  pick  for  a  winner  on  form  and  past  per- 
formance. 

Say,  it  took  all  the  front  I  had  in  stock  just  to 
tag  along  as  an  also  ran,  but  when  I  thought  of 
the  Boss,  headin'  the  procession,  I  was  dead  sorry 
for  him.  And  what  kind  of  a  game  do  you  think 
he  hands  out?  Straight  talk,  no  thin'  but!  Course 
he  didn't  make  no  family  hist'ry  out  of  tellin' 
who  his  lady-fren'  was,  but  as  far  as  he  went  it 
tallied  with  the  card,  even  to  lettin'  on  that  she 
was  a  Lady  Brigandess. 


76  SHORTY  McCABE 

"Out  we  go  now/'  says  I  to  myself,  and  looks 
to  see  Mamma  Van  Urban  throw  a  cat  fit.  But 
she  didn't.  She  just  squealed  a  little,  same's  if 
someone  had  tickled  her  behind  the  ear,  and  then 
she  began  slingin'  that  gurgly-gurgly  Newport 
talk  that  the  Sixt'  avenue  sales  ladies  use.  Sis 
Van  Urban  caught  the  same  cue,  and  to  hear  'em 
you'd  thought  the  Boss  had  done  something  real 
cute.  They  gave  the  Lady  Brigandess  the  High 
Bridge  wig-wag  and  shooed  her  into  a  stage 
corner  chair. 

She  never  made  a  kick  at  anything  until  they 
tried  to  take  away  her  cloak.  Not  much!  She 
was  just  beginnin'  to  be  stuck  on  that.  She 
kept  it  wrapped  around  her  like  she  knew  the 
proprietor  wa'n't  responsible  for  overcoats.  The 
Boss  tried  to  tell  her  how  there  wa'n't  any  grand 
larceny  intended,  but  it  was  no  go.  She  had 
her  suspicions  of  the  crowd,  so  they  just  had  to 
let  her  sit  there  draped  in  black.  And  at  that 
she  wa'n't  any  misfit. 

Now  I'd  been  inside  the  Metropolitan  once  or 
twice  before,  havin'  blown  myself  to  a  standee 
just  for  the  sake  of  lookin'  at  the  real  things 
with  their  war  paint  on,  but  I  wasn't  feelin'  any 
more  to  home  in  the  back  of  that  box  than  I 
would  in  the  pilot  house  of  an  air  ship. 

But  the  Lady  Brigandess  didn't  show  no  more 


SHORTY  McCABE  77 

stage  fright  than  an  auctioneer.  She  just  holds 
her  chin  up  and  looks  out  at  all  that  display  of 
openwork  dressmaking  and  cut  glass  exhibit 
without  so  much  as  battin'  an  eyelash.  She  was 
takin'  it  all  in,  too,  from  the  bargain  hats  in  the 
fam'ly  circle,  to  the  diamond  tummy  warmers 
in  the  parterre,  but  you'd  never  guessed  that  she'd 
just  escaped  from  a  Dago  back  district  where 
they  have  one  mail  a  week.  If  I  hadn't  seen  her 
chumming  with  a  hold-up  gang  that  couldn't 
have  bought  fifteen  cent  lodgings  on  the  Bowery, 
I'd  bet  the  limit  that  she  was  a  thoroughbred  in 
disguise. 

There  was  some  rubber  in'  at  her,  of  course,  and 
I  expect  we  had  the  safety  vault  crowd  guessin' 
as  to  what  kind  of  a  prize  the  Van  Urbans  had 
won,  but  it  didn't  feaze  her  a  bit.  She  just  gave 
'em  the  Horse  Show  stare,  as  cool  as  a  mint 
frappe".  The  ringin'  up  of  the  curtain  didn't 
disturb  her  any,  either.  When  a  chesty  baritone 
sauntered  down  toward  the  footlights  and  began 
callin'  the  chorus  names  she  glanced  over  her 
shoulder,  casual  like,  just  to  see  what  the  row 
was  all  about,  and  then  went  on  sizin'  up  the 
folks  hi  the  boxes.  She  couldn't  have  done  it 
better  if  she'd  taken  lessons  by  mail. 

"If  she  would  only  talk!"  gurgles  Mrs.  Van  Ur- 
ban. "Doesn't  she  speak  anything  but  Italian?" 


78  SHORTY  McCABE 

"Pure  Tuscan  is  all  she  knows,"  says  the  Boss, 
"and  the  way  she  talks  it  is  better  than  any 
music  you'll  hear  to-night.  Wait  until  she  has 
satisfied  her  eyes." 

Pretty  soon  the  baritone  quits  jawin'  the  chorus 
and  a  prima  donna  in  spangled  clothes  comes  to 
the  front.  Maybe  it  was  Melba,  or  Nordica. 
Anyway,  she  was  an  A-l  warbler.  She  hadn't 
let  go  of  more'n  a  dozen  notes  before  the  Lady 
Brigandess  begins  to  sit  up  and  take  notice.  First 
she  has  a  kind  of  surprised  look,  as  it  a  ringer 
had  been  sprung  on  her;  and  then,  as  the  high 
C  artist  begins  to  let  herself  go,  she  swings  around 
and  listens  with  both  ears.  The  music  didn't 
seem  to  go  in  one  side  and  out  the  other.  It 
stuck  somewhere  between,  and  swayed  and 
lifted  her  like  a  breeze  in  a  posy  bush.  I  could 
hear  her  toe  tappin'  out  the  tune  and  see  her 
head  keep  time  to  it.  Why,  if  I  could  get  my 
money's  worth  out  of  music  like  that  I'd  buy  a 
season  ticket. 

When  the  prima  donna  had  cut  it  off,  with  her 
voice  way  up  in  the  flies  somewhere,  and  the 
house  had  rose  to  her,  as  the  bleachers  do  when 
one  of  the  Giants  knocks  a  three  bagger,  the  Lady 
Brigandess  was  still  sittin'  there,  waitin'  for  more. 

Her  trance  didn't  last  long,  though.  She  just 
cast  one  eye  around  the  boxes,  where  the  folks 


SHORTY  McCABE  79 

were  splittin'  gloves  and  wavin'  fans  and  yellin' 
"Bravo!  Bravo!"  so  that  you'd  'a-thought 
somebody'd  carried  Ohio  by  a  big  majority,  and 
then  she  takes  a  notion  to  get  into  the  game  her- 
self. 

Shuckin'  that  high  priced  opera  cloak  she 
jumps  up,  drops  one  hand  on  her  hip,  holds  the 
other  up  to  her  lips  and  peels  off  a  kind  of  whoop- 
e-e-e  yodel  that  shakes  the  skylight.  Talk  about 
your  cornet  bugle  calls!  That  little  ventriloquist 
pass  of  hers  had  'em  stung  to  a  whisper.  It  cut 
through  all  that  patter  and  screech  like  a  siren  whis- 
tle splittin'  a  fish  horn  serenade,  and  it  was  as  clear 
as  the  ring  of  silver  sleigh  bells  on  a  frosty  night. 

After  that  it  was  all  up  to  her.  The  other  folks 
quit  and  turned  to  see  who  had  done  it.  Two  or 
three  thousand  pairs  of  double  barrelled  opera 
glasses  were  pointed  our  way.  The  folks  behind 
'em  found  something  worth  lookin'  at,  too.  Our 
Brigandess  wasn't  in  disguise  any  more,  She 
stood  up  there  at  the  box  rail,  straight  as  a  Gibson 
girl,  her  black  hair  hangin'  in  two  thick  braids 
below  her  waist,  the  gold  hoops  in  her  ears  all 
ajiggle,  her  little  fringed  jacket  risin'  and  fallin', 
and  her  black  eyes  snappin'  like  a  pair  of  burning 
trolley  fuses.  Well,  say,  if  she  wa'n't  a  pastelle 
I  never  saw  one!  I  guess  the  star  singer  thought 
so,  too.  She'd  just  smiled  and  nodded  at  the 


8o  SHORTY  McCABE 

others,  but  she  blew  a  kiss  up  to  our  lady  before 
she  left. 

I  don't  know  just  what  would  have  happened 
next  If  someone  hadn't  shown  up  at  the  back  of 
the  box  and  asked  for  the  Boss.  It  was  the 
Italian  consul  that  we'd  been  to  see  earlier  in  the 
day. 

"Where'd  you  find  her?"  says  he. 

"Meanin'  who?"  says  the  Boss. 

"Why,  her  highness  the  Princess  Padova." 

"Beg  pardon,"  says  the  Boss,  "but  if  you  mean 
the  young  lady  there,  you're  wrong.  She's  the 
daughter  of  a  poor  but  honest  brigand  chief,  and 
she's  j  ust  come  from  Tuscany  to  discover  New  York. ' ' 

"She's  the  Princess  Padova  or  I'm  a  Turk," 
says  the  Consul.  "  Ask  her  to  step  back  here  a  mo- 
ment." 

It  sounded  like  a  pipe  dream,  all  right.  Who 
ever  saw  a  princess  rigged  out  for  the  tambourine 
act  and  mixin'  with  a  lot  of  chestnut  roasters? 
But  old  whiskers  had  the  evidence  down  pat, 
though.  As  he  told  it,  she  was  a  sure  enough 
princess,  so  far  as  the  tag  went,  only  the  family 
had  been  in  the  nobility  business  so  long  that  the 
pedigree  had  lasted  out  the  plunks. 

It  seemed  that  away  back,  before  the  Chicago 
fire  or  the  Sayers-Heenan  go,  her  great-grandpop 
had  princed  it  in  regulation  shape.  Then  there' d 


SHORTY  McCABE  81 

come  a  grand  mix-up,  a  war  or  something,  and  a 
lot  of  princes  had  either  lost  their  jobs  or  got 
on  the  blacklist.  Her  great-grandpop  had  been 
one  of  the  kind  that  didn't  know  when  he  was 
licked.  They  euchered  him  out  of  his  castle  and 
building  lots,  but  he  gathered  up  what  was  left 
of  his  gang  and  slid  for  the  tall  timber,  where  he 
went  on  princing  the  best  he  knew  how.  As  he 
couldn't  disgrace  himself  by  workin',  and  hadn't 
lost  the  hankerin'  for  reg'lar  meals,  he  got  into 
the  habit  of  taking  up  contributions  from  whoever 
came  along,  calling  it  a  road  tax.  And  that's  how 
the  Padova  family  fell  into  playing  the  hold-up 
game. 

But  the  old  man  Padova,  the  Princess'  father, 
never  forgot  that  if  he'd  had  his  rights  he  would 
have  been  boss  of  his  ward,  and  he  always  acted 
accordin'.  So  when  he  picked  the  Consul  up  on 
the  road  one  night  with  a  broken  leg  he  gave  him 
the  best  in  the  house,  patched  him  up  like  an 
ambulance  surgeon,  and  kept  him  board  free 
until  he  could  walk  back  to  town.  And  so,  when 
Miss  Padova  takes  it  into  her  head  to  elope  to 
America  with  a  tin  trunk,  Papa  Padova  hikes 
himself  down  to  the  nearest  telegraph  office  and 
cables  over  a  general  alarm  to  his  old  friend, 
who's  been  made  consul. 

"I've  been  having  Mulberry  Bend  raked  with 
6 


82  SHORTY  McCABE 

a  fine  toothed  comb/'  says  he,  "but  when  I  saw 
her  highness  stand  up  here  in  the  box  I  knew  her 
at  a  glance,  although  it's  been  ten  years  since  I 
saw  her  last." 

Then  he  asked  her  if  he  hadn't  called  the  trick, 
and  she  said  he  had. 

"Now,"  says  he,  "perhaps  you'll  tell  us  why 
you  came  to  America?" 

"Sure,"  says  she,  or  something  that  meant 
the  same,  "I've  come  over  after  me  best  feller. 
I've  made  up  my  mind  that  I'll  marry  him," 
and  she  slips  an  arm  around  the  Boss's  neck  just 
as  cool  as  though  they'd  been  on  a  moonlight 
excursion. 

Mr.  Consul's  face  gets  as  red  as  a  fireman's 
shirt,  the  Van  Urbans  catch  their  breath  with 
both  fists,  and  I  begins  to  see  what  a  lovely  mess 
I'd  been  helping  the  Boss  to  get  himself  into. 
He  never  turned  a  hair  though. 

"The  honor  is  all  mine,"  says  he,  just  as  if  he 
meant  every  word  of  it. 

"Ahem!"  says  the  Consul,  kind  of  steadying 
himself  against  the  curtains.  "Perhaps  it  would 
be  best,  before  anything  more  is  said  on  this 
subject,  for  the  Princess  to  have  a  talk  with  my 
wife.  We'll  take  her  home." 

Well,  they  settled  it  that  way  and  I  was  mighty 
glad  to  get  her  off  our  hands  so  easy. 


SHORTY  McCABE  83 

Next  afternoon  the  Consul  shows  up  at  our  ranch 
as  gay  as  an  up-state  deacon  who's  seeing  the 
town  incog. 

"Sir,"  says  he  to  the  Boss,  givin'  him  the  right 
hand  of  fellowship,  "you're  a  real  gent.  After 
what  you  did  last  night  I'm  proud  to  know  you; 
and  I'm  happy  to  state  that  it's  all  off  with  the 
Princess." 

Then  he  went  on  to  tell  how  Miss  Padova, 
being  out  of  her  latitude,  hadn't  got  her  book 
straight.  She'd  carried  away  the  notion  that 
when  a  Princess  went  out  of  her  class  she  had  a 
right  to  sign  on  any  chap  that  she  liked  the  looks 
of,  without  waitin'  for  him  to  make  the  first 
move.  They  did  it  that  way  at  home.  But 
when  the  Consul's  wife  had  explained  the  United 
States  way,  and  how  the  Boss  was  a  good  deal  of 
a  rooster  himself,  with  real  money  enough  to  buy 
up  a  whole  rink  full  of  Dago  princes,  why  Miss 
Padova  feels  like  a  plush  Christmas  box  at  a  Janu- 
ary sale.  She  turns  on  the  sprinkler,  wants  to 
know  what  they  suppose  the  Boss  thinks  of  her, 
and  says  she  wants  to  go  back  to  It'ly  by  the 
next  trolley. 

"But  she'll  get  over  feeling  bad,"  says  the  Con- 
sul. "We'll  ship  her  back  next  Friday,  and  you 
can  take  it  from  me  that  the  incident  is  closed." 

I  was  lookin'  for  the  Boss  to  open  a  bottle  or 


84  SHORTY  McCABE 

two  on  that.  But  he  didn't.  For  a  pleased 
man  he  held  in  well. 

"Poor  little  girl!"  says  he,  looking  absent 
minded  towards  the  Bronx.  Then  he  cheers  up 
a  minute.  "I  say,  do  you  mind  if  I  run  up  and 
see  her  once  before  she  sails?" 

"You  may  for  all  of  me,"  says  the  Consul, 
"but  if  you'll  listen  to  my  advice  you  won't  go." 

He  did  though,  and  lugged  me  along  for  a 
chaperone,  which  is  some  out  of  my  line. 

"I'm  afraid  they've  rather  overdone  the  ex- 
plaining business,"  says  he  on  the  way  up;  and 
while  I  had  my  own  idea  as  to  that,  I  had  sense 
enough,  for  once,  not  to  butt  in. 

That  was  an  ice  house  call,  all  right.  They 
left  us  on  the  mat  while  our  cards  went  up,  and 
after  a  while  the  hired  girl  comes  down  to  give  us 
the  book-agent  glare. 

"TV  Missus,"  says  she,  "says  as  how  the  young 
lady  begs  to  be  'xcused." 

"Does  the  young  lady  know  we 're  here?"  says 
the  Boss. 

"She  does,"  says  the  girl,  and  shuts  the  door. 

"Gee!"  says  I,  "that's  below  the  belt." 

The  Boss  hadn't  a  word  left  in  him,  but  I 
wouldn't  have  met  him  in  the  ring  about  then  for 
anything  less  'n  a  bookie's  bundle. 

Just  as  we  hit  the  sidewalk  we  hears  a  front 


SHORTY  McCABE  85 

window  go  up,  and  down  comes  a  red  rose  plunk 
in  front  of  us. 

"Many  happy  returns  of  the  day,"  says  I, 
handing  it  to  the  Boss. 

"I  suppose  you're  right,"  says  he.  "It's  the 
only  way  to  look  at  it,  I  expect;  and  yet — oh, 
hang  it  all,  Shorty,  what's  the  use?" 

"Ahr-r,  say!"  says  I.  "Switch  off!  It's  all 
over,  and  you've  side  stepped  takin'  the  count." 


CHAPTER  IV 

DOES  the  Boss  let  it  go  at  that?  Say,  I  was 
just  thick  enough  to  guess  that  he  would.  I 
was  still  havin'  that  dream,  a  few  days  later, 
when  the  Boss  says  to  me: 

"  Shorty,  you  remember  that  old  castle  of  ours?" 

"You  don't  think  I've  been  struck  with  soften- 
in'  of  the  brain,  do  you?"  says  I.  "That'll  be 
the  last  thing  I'll  forget.  What's  happened  to  it ?  " 

"It's  mine,"  says  he. 

"G'way!"  says  I.  "They  couldn't  force  you 
to  take  it." 

"I've  bought  it,"  says  he.  "I  cabled  over  an 
offer,  and  the  Count  has  accepted." 

"Goin'  to  blow  it  up?"  I  says. 

"I  hope,"  says  he,  gettin'  a  little  red  under 
the  eyes,  "to  spend  my  honeymoon  there;  that  is, 
if  the  Princess  Padova — " 

"The  who?"  says  I.  "Oh,  you  mean  the  lady 
brigandess?" 

"If  the  Princess  Padova,"  says  he,  keepin' 
straight  on,  "doesn't  prefer  some  other  place. 
We  sail  to-morrow." 

"Then — then — "  says  I,  cat  chin'  my  breath, 
"you've  done  it?" 

It  was  silly  askin'  him.    Why,  it  stuck  out  all 


SHORTY  McCABE  87 

over  his  face.  I  don't  know  what  I  said  next, 
but  it  didn't  matter  much.  He  was  too  far  up 
in  the  air  to  hear  anything  in  particular.  Just 
as  we  shakes  hands  though,  he  passes  me  an 
envelope  and  says: 

"Shorty,  I  wish  you'd  take  this  down  to  my 
lawyer  next  Monday  morning.  It's  a  little  mat- 
ter I  haven't  had  time  to  fix  up." 

"Sure,"  says  I.  "I'll  tie  up  any  loose  ends. 
And  don't  forget  to  give  my  regards  to  old  Vin- 


cenzo." 


Say,  I  s'pose  I'd  ought  to  told  him  what  a  mark 
he'd  made  of  himself,  takin'  a  chance  with  any 
such  wild-rose  runnin'  mate  as  that;  but  some- 
how it  seemed  all  right,  for  him.  I  couldn't  get 
a  view  of  the  Boss  mated  up  with  any  silk-lined, 
city-broke  girl.  I  guess  Miss  Padova  was  about 
his  style,  after  all;  and  I  reckon  it  would  take  a 
man  like  him  to  manage  one  of  her  high  flyin' 
kind.  Anyway,  I'm  glad  he  got  her. 

I  was  sorry  to  lose  the  Boss,  though.  "It's 
me  to  go  back  to  trainin'  four  flush  comers  again," 
says  I,  when  he'd  gone.  And  say,  I  wa'n't  feelin' 
gay  over  the  prospect.  Some  of  these  mitt  artists 
is  nice,  decent  boys,  but  then  again  you'll  find 
others  that  you  can't  take  much  pride  in. 

You  see,  I'd  been  knockin'  around  for  months 
with  someone  who  was  clean  all  the  way  through 


88  SHORTY  McCABE 

— washed  clean,  spoke  clean,  thought  clean — and 
now  there  was  no  tellin'  what  kind  of  a  push  I'd 
fall  in  with.  You've  had  a  peek  at  trainin' 
camps,  eh?  Them  rubbers  is  apt  to  be  a  scousy 
lot.  It  was  the  goin'  back  to  eatin'  with  sword 
swallowers  that  came  hardest,  though.  I  can 
stand  for  a  good  many  things,  but  when  I  sees  a 
guy  loadin'  up  his  knife  for  the  shovel  act,  I 
rubs  him  off  my  list. 

I  was  goin'  over  all  this,  on  the  way  down  to 
the  office  of  that  lawyer  the  Boss  wanted  me  to 
see.  I'd  met  him  a  few  times,  so  when  I  sends  in 
my  name  there  wa'n't  any  waitin'  around  in  the 
ante-room  with  the  office  boy. 

"  Bring  Mr.  McCabe  right  in,"  says  he.  "  Mister 
McCabe,"  mind  you.  He's  one  of  those  wiry, 
brisk  little  chaps,  with  x-ray  eyes,  and  a  voice 
like  a  telephone  bell.  "Ah,  yes!"  says  he,  takin' 
the  letter.  "I  know  about  that — some  stock  I 
was  to  turn  into  cash.  Franklin!"  he  sings  out. 
Franklin  comes  in  like  he'd  come  through  a  tube. 
"Bring  me  Mr.  McCabe's  bank  book." 

"Bank  book!"  says  I.  "I  guess  you've  dipped 
into  the  wrong  letter  file.  I  don't  sport  any  bank 
book." 

"Perhaps  you  didn't  yesterday,"  says  he, 
"but  to-day  you  do." 

And  say,  what  do  you  think  the  Boss  had  gone 


SHORTY  McCABE  89 

and  done?  Opened  an  account  in  my  name, 
and  fatted  it  up  good  and  sweet,  as  a  starter. 

"But  he  didn't  owe  me  anything  like  that," 
says  I. 

"A  difference  of  opinion,  Mr.  McCabe,"  says 
the  lawyer.  "'For  services  rendered,'  that  was 
the  way  his  instructions  to  me  read.  I  sold  the 
stock  and  made  the  deposit  to  your  credit.  That's 
all  there  is  to  it.  Good  day.  Call  again." 

And  the  next  thing  I  knew  I  was  goin'  down  in 
the  elevator  with  me  fist  grippin'  that  bank  book 
like  it  was  a  life  raft.  First  off  I  has  to  go  and 
have  a  look  at  the  outside  of  that  bank.  That's 
right,  snicker.  But  say,  I've  had  as  much  dough 
as  that  before,  only  I'd  always  carried  it  in  a 
bundle.  There's  a  lot  of  difference.  Every  tin- 
horn sport  has  his  bundle,  you  know;  but  it's 
only  your  real  gent  that  can  flash  a  check  book. 
I  could  feel  my  chest  swellin'  by  the  minute. 

"Shorty,"  says  I,  "you've  broke  into  a  new 
class.  Now  you've  got  to  make  good." 

And  how  do  you  s'pose  I  begins?  Why,  I 
hires  one  of  these  open  faced  cabs  by  the  hour, 
and  tells  the  chap  up  top  to  take  me  up  Fifth 
ave.  I  wanted  to  think,  and  there  ain't  any 
better  place  for  brain  exercise  than  leanin'  back  in 
a  hansom,  squintin'  out  over  the  foldin'  doors. 
I'd  got  pretty  near  up  to  the  Plaza  before  I 


90  SHORTY  McCABE 

hooks  what  I  was  fishin'  after.    It  came  sudden, 
too. 

It  was  like  this :  Whilst  I  was  sparrin'  secretary 
to  the  Boss  I'd  met  up  with  a  lot  of  his  crowd, 
and  some  of  'em  had  tried  the  gloves  on  with  me. 
I  didn't  go  in  for  sluggin'  their  blocks  off,  just  to 
show  'em  I  could  do  it.  There's  no  sense  in  that, 
unless  you're  out  for  a  purse.  Sparrin'  for  points 
is  the  best  kind  of  fun,  and  for  an  all  'round  tonic 
it  can't  be  beat.  They  liked  the  way  I  handled 
'em,  and  they  used  to  say  they  wished  they  could 
take  a  dose  of  that  medicine  reg'lar,  same  as  the 
Boss  did. 

"And  that's  just  the  chance  I'm  goin'  to  give 
'em,"  says  I. 

With  that  I  heads  back  for  Forty-second 
street,  picks  out  a  vacant  floor  I'd  noticed,  and 
signs  a  lease.  Inside  of  a  week  I  has  the  place 
fixed  up  with  mat,  chest  weights,  and  such;  lays 
in  a  stock  of  soft  gloves,  buys  a  medicine  ball  or 
two,  gets  me  some  cards  printed,  and  has  me 
name  done  in  gold  letters  on  the  ground  glass. 
Boxin'  instructor?  Not  on  your  accident  policy. 
Nor  private  gym.,  either. 

PROFESSOR  M'CABE'S 

STUDIO  OF  PHYSICAL  CULTURE 

That's  the  way  the  door  plate  reads.    It  may  be 

a  bluff,  but  it  scares  off  the  cheap  muggs  that 


SHORTY  McCABE  91 

would  hang  around  a  boxin'  school.  They  don't 
know  what  it  means,  any  more'n  if  it  was  Chinese. 

Well,  when  I  gets  things  all  in  shape  I  gives 
out  word  to  some  of  those  gents,  and  before  I'd 
been  runnin'  a  fortnight  I'd  booked  business 
enough  to  see  that  I'd  struck  it  right.  What's 
the  use  monkeyin'  with  comers  when  you  can 
take  on  men  that's  made  their  pile?  They're  a 
high-toned  lot,  too,  and  they  don't  care  what  it 
costs,  so  long  as  I  keeps  'em  in  shape.  Some  of 
'em  don't  put  on  the  mitts  at  all,  but  most  of  'em 
works  up  to  that. 

Now  there  was  Mr.  Gordon.  Sure,  Pyramid 
Gordon.  But  I'll  have  to  tell  you  about  the 
game  he  stacks  me  up  against.  I'd  had  him  as  a 
reg'lar  for  about  a  month — Mondays,  Wednesdays 
and  Saturdays,  from  five  to  six — and  he  was  just 
gettin'  so  he  knew  what  real  livin'  was,  when 
somethin'  breaks  loose  down  on  the  street  that 
makes  him  forget  everything  but  the  figures  on 
the  tape.  So  he  quits  trainin'.  About  ten  days 
later  he  drops  in  one  afternoon,  with  fur  on  his 
tongue,  and  his  eyes  lookin'  like  a  couple  of  cold 
fried  eggs. 

"Are  you  comin'  or  goin',  Mr.  Gordon?"  says  I. 

"Where,  Shorty?"  says  he. 

"Hospital,"  says  I. 

He  grinned  a  little,  the  kind  of  grin  a  feller  wears 


92  SHORTY  McCABE 

when  he's  bein'  helped  to  his  corner,  after  the 
count. 

"I  know/'  says  he;  "but  when  you've  been 
sitting  for  two  weeks  on  a  volcano,  Shorty,  won- 
dering whether  it  would  blow  you  up,  or  open  and 
let  you  fall  in,  you're  apt  to  forget  your  liver." 

"It  ain't  apt  to  forget  you,  though,"  says  I. 
"Shall  we  have  a  little  session  right  now?" 

And  then  he  springs  his  proposition.  He'd  got 
to  go  to  Washington  and  back  inside  of  the  next 
two  breakfasts,  and  he  wanted  me  to  go  along, 
some  on  account  of  his  liver,  but  mostly  so's  he 
could  forget  that  he  was  still  on  the  lid.  His 
private  car  was  hitched  to  the  tail  of  the  Flyer,  and 
he  had  just  forty-five  minutes  to  get  aboard. 
Would  I  come? 

"If  I'm  wiped  out  by  the  time  we  get  back," 
says  he,  "I'll  make  you  a  preferred  creditor." 

"  I'll  take  chances  on  that,"  says  I. 

They  did  do  the  trick  to  Pyramid  once,  you 
know ;  but  they'd  never  got  him  right  since.  They 
had  him  worried  some  this  time,  though.  You 
could  tell  that  by  the  way  he  smiled  at  the  wrong 
cues,  and  combed  his  deacon  whiskers  with  his 
fingers.  They're  the  only  deacon  whiskers  I  ever 
had  in  the  Studio.  Used  to  make  me  nervous 
when  I  hit  'em,  for  fear  I'd  drive  'em  in.  But  he's 
dead  game,  Pyramid  is,  whether  he's  stoppin' 


SHORTY  McCABE  93 

mitts,  or  buckin'  the  Upright  Oil  push.  So  I  grabs 
a  few  things  off  the  wall,  and  we  pikes  for  the  ferry. 

"Where's  the  other  parties? "  says  I,  when  I'd 
sized  up  the  inside  of  the  Adeline.  There  was 
room  enough  for  a  minstrel  troupe. 

"We're  to  have  it  all  to  ourselves,  professor," 
says  he.  "And  it's  almost  time  for  us  to  pull 
out;  there's  the  last  Cortlandt-st.  boat  in." 

About  then  we  hears  Mr.  Rufus  Rastus,  the 
Congo  brunet  that's  master  of  ceremonies  on 
the  car,  havin'  an  argument  out  in  the  vestibule. 
He  was  tryin'  to  shunt  somebody.  They  didn't 
shunt  though,  and  in  comes  a  long-geared  old 
gent,  wearin'  one  of  those  belted  ulsters  that 
they  make  out  of  horse-blankets  for  English 
tourists.  He  had  a  dinky  cloth  cap  of  the  same 
pattern,  and  the  lengthiest  face  I  ever  saw  on  a 
man.  It  wasn't  a  cheerful  face,  either;  looked 
like  he  was  huntin'  for  his  own  tombstone,  and 
didn't  care  how  soon  he  found  it. 

Rufus  Rastus  was  hangin'  to  one  of  his  arms, 
splutterin'  things  about  this  being  a  private  car, 
and  gettin'  no  more  notice  taken  of  himself  than 
as  if  he'd  been  an  escape-valve.  Behind  ;em, 
totin'  a  lot  of  leather  bags  of  all  shapes,  was  a 
peaked-nosed  chap,  who  looked  like  he  was  doin' 
aU  the  frettin'  for  a  Don't  Worry  Club. 

"It's  honly  Sir  Peter,"  says  the  worried  chap. 


94  SHORTY  McCABE 

"  'E's  myde  a  mistyke,  y'  know.  Hi'll  get  'im 
out,  sir." 

"Danvers,  shut  up!"  says  Sir  Peter. 

"Yes,  sir;   directly,  sir;  but — "  says  he. 

"  Shut  up  now  and  sit  down ! "  Sir  Peter  wasn't 
scrappy  about  it.  He  just  said  it  as  though  he 
was  tired.  But  Danvers  wilted. 

"Shall  I  give  'em  the  run?"  says  I. 

"No,"  says  Mr.  Gordon;  "there's  the  bell.  We 
can  get  rid  of  them  at  the  first  stop." 

Then  he  goes  over  to  Sir  Peter,  tells  him  all 
about  the  Adeline's  bein'  a  private  snap,  and 
vhow  he  can  change  to  a  parlor-car  at  Trenton. 

The  old  fellow  seems  to  take  it  all  in,  lookin' 
him  straight  in  the  eye,  without  turnin'  a  hair, 
and  then  he  says,  just  as  if  they'd  been  talkin' 
about  it  for  a  month:  "You'd  better  wear  a 
bucket,  as  I  do.  It  looks  a  little  odd,  you  know; 
but  the  decimals  can't  get  through  a  bucket. 
Danvers!"  he  sings  out. 

"But  you  don't  understand,"  says  Pyramid. 
"I  said  this  was  a  private  car — private  car!" 

"Don't  shout,"  says  Sir  Peter.  "I'm  not 
deaf.  I'd  lend  you  a  bucket  if  I  had  an  extra 
one;  but  I  haven't.  Danvers!" 

This  time  Danvers  edged  in  with  one  of  those 
sole-leather  cases  that  an  Englishman  carries 
his  plug-hat  in. 


'  Got  his  wheels  all  under  cover,"  says  I. 


l :  -• 

- 


SHORTY  McCABE  95 

"Don't  you  think,  Sir  Peter—"  says  he. 

"Yes;  but  you  don't,"  says  Sir  Peter.  "Hurry 
on,  now!" 

And  I'll  be  welched  if  Danvers  didn't  dig  a 
wooden  pail  out  of  that  hat-case  and  hand  it 
over.  Sir  Peter  chucks  the  cap,  puts  on  the 
pail,  drops  the  handle  under  his  chin,  and  stretches 
out  on  a  corner  sofa  as  peaceful  as  a  bench-duster 
hi  the  park. 

"Looks  like  he's  got  his  wheels  all  under  cover," 
says  I.  "Great  scheme — every  man  his  own 
garage." 

"Who  is  he?"  says  Mr.  Gordon  to  Danvers. 

"Lord,  sir,  you  don't  mean  to  sye  you  don't 
know  Sir  Peter,  sir?"  says  Danvers.  "Why, 
Vs  Sir  Peter— the  Sir  Peter.  'E's  a  bit  hec- 
centric  at  times,  sir." 

Well,  we  let  it  go  at  that.  Sir  Peter  seemed 
to  be  enjoying  himself;  so  we  piles  all  the  wicker 
chairs  around  him,  opens  the  ventilators,  and 
peels  down  for  business. 

Ever  try  hand-ball  in  a  car  that's  being  snaked 
over  switches  at  fifty  miles  an  hour?  So  far  as 
looks  went,  we  were  just  as  batty  as  Sir  Peter 
with  his  wooden  hat.  We  caromed  around  like 
a  couple  of  six-spots  in  a  dice-box,  and  some  of  the 
foot-work  we  did  would  have  had  a  buck-and- 
wing  artist  crazy.  We  was  using  a  tennis-ball, 


96  SHORTY  McCABE 

and  when  we'd  get  in  three  strokes  without 
missing  we'd  stop  and  shake  hands.  There  wa'n't 
any  more  sense  to  it  than  to  a  musical  comedy; 
but  it  was  makin'  Mr.  Gordon  forget  his  troubles, 
and  it  was  doing  his  liver  good.  Danvers  watched 
us  from  behind  some  chairs.  He  looked  disgusted. 

By  the  time  we'd  got  half-way  across  Jersey  we 
was  ready  for  the  bath  tub.  And  say,  that's  the 
way  to  travel  and  stay  at  home,  all  to  once.  A 
private  car  for  mine.  While  we  was  puttin'  on  a 
polish  with  the  Turkish  towels,  Rufus  Rastus  was 
busy  with  the  dinner. 

"Now,  we'll  have  another  talk  with  Sir  Peter 
of  the  Pail,"  says  Mr.  Gordon. 

We  took  the  barricade  down,  and  found  him  just 
as  we'd  left  him.  Then  he  an'  Pyramid  gets  to- 
gether; but  it  was  the  wizziest  brand  of  conversa- 
tion I  ever  heard.  You'd  have  thought  they  was 
talkin'  over  the  'phone  to  the  wrong  numbers. 
Sir  Peter  would  listen  to  all  Mr.  Gordon  had  to  say, 
just  as  if  he  was  gettin'  next  to  every  word,  but 
his  come-backs  didn't  fit  by  a  mile. 

"Sorry  to  disturb  you,"  says  Mr.  Gordon; 
"  but  I'll  have  to  ask  you  to  change  to  a  forward 
car  next  stop." 

Sir  Peter  blinked  his  lamps  at  him  a  minute,  and 
then  he  says:  "Yes,  it  keeps  the  decimals  out," 
and  he  taps  the  bucket,  knowing  like.  "My  own 


SHORTY  McCABE  97 

invention,  sir.  I'd  advise  you  to  try  it  if  they 
ever  bother  you." 

"Yes,  I'll  take  your  word  for  that,"  says  Mr. 
Gordon;  "but  I'm  afraid  you'll  have  to  be  get- 
ting ready  to  move.  This  is  my  private  car,  you 
see." 

"They  always  come  point  first,"  says  Sir  Peter; 
"  that's  how  they  get  in.  It's  only  the  bucket  that 
makes  'em  shy  off." 

"Oh,  the  deuce!"  says  Pyramid.  "Here, 
Shorty,  you  try  your  luck  with  him." 

"Sure,"  says  I.  "I've  talked  sense  through 
thicker  things  than  a  wooden  pail."  First  I  raps 
on  his  cupola  with  me  knuckles,  just  to  ring  him 
up.  Then,  when  I  gets  his  eye,  I  says,  kind  of 

>axin':  "Pete,  it's  seventeen  after  six.  That's 
twenty- three  for  you.  Are  you  next?" 

Now  say,  you'd  thought  most  anyone  would 

ive  dropped  for  a  hint  like  that,  dippy  or  not. 
hit  Sir  Peter  sizes  me  up  without  battin'  an  eye. 
[e  had  a  kind  of  dignified,  solemn  way  of  lookin', 

>,  with  eyes  wide  open,  same's  a  judge  chargin' 

jury. 

"Y^ou'll  never  need  a  bucket,"  says  he. 

Just  then  I  heard  something  that  sounded  like 
pouring  water  from  a  jug,  and  I  looks  around,  to 
see  Mr.  Gordon  turnin'  plum  color  and  holdin' 
himself  by  the  short  ribs.  I  knew  what  had 


98  SHORTY  McCABE 

happened  then.  The  nutty  one  had  handed  me 
the  lemon. 

"Scratch  me  off,"  says  I.  "I'm  in  the  wrong 
class.  If  there's  to  be  any  more  Bloomingdale 
repartee,  just  count  me  out." 

Naw,  I  wa'n't  sore,  or  nothin'  like  that.  If  any- 
one can  get  free  vawdyville  from  me  I'll  write  'em 
an  annual  pass;  but  I  couldn't  see  the  use  of 
monkeyin'  with  that  bug-house  boarder.  Say,  if 
you  was  payin'  for  five  rooms  and  bath  when  you 
went  on  the  road,  like  Mr.  Gordon  was,  would  you 
stand  for  any  machinery-loft  butt-in  like  that? 
I  was  waitin'  for  the  word  to  pile  Sir  Peter  on  the 
baggage  truck,  Danvers  and  all. 

Think  I  got  it?  Nix!  Some  folks  is  easy 
pleased.  And  Pyramid  Gordon,  with  seventeen 
different  kinds  of  trouble  bein'  warmed  up  for 
him  behind  his  back,  stood  there  and  played  kid. 
Said  he  couldn't  think  of  losin'  Sir  Peter  after 
that.  He'd  got  to  have  dinner  with  us.  Blessed 
if  he  didn't  too,  pail  and  all!  Couldn't  fall  for  any 
talk  about  changin'  cars;  oh,  no!  But  when  he 
sees  the  pink  candles,  and  the  oysters  on  the  half, 
and  the  quart  bott'  in  the  ice  bath,  he  seemed  to 
get  his  hearin'  back  by  wireless. 

"Dinner?"  says  he.  "Ah,  yes!  Danvers,  has 
the  prime  minister  come  yet?  It  was  to-night 
that  he  was  to  dine  with  me,  wasn't  it?" 


SHORTY  McCABE  99 

"To-morrow  night,  Sir  Peter/'  says  Danvers. 

"Oh,  very  well.  But  you  gentlemen  will 
share  the  joint  with  me,  eh?  Welcome  to  Brans- 
comb  Arms!  And  let's  gather  around,  sirs,  let's 
gather  around!" 

You  should  have  seen  the  way  he  did  it,  though. 
Reg'lar  John  Drew  manners,  the  old  duffer  had. 
Lord  knows  where  he  thought  he  was,  though; 
somewhere  on  Highgate  Road,  I  suppose.  But 
wherever  it  was,  he  was  right  to  home — called 
Rufus  Rastus  Jenkins,  and  told  Danvers  he  could 
go  for  the  day.  Gave  me  the  goose-flesh  back 
until  I  got  used  to  it;  but  Mr.  Gordon  seemed  to 
take  it  all  as  part  of  the  game. 

It  beat  all  the  dinners  I  ever  had,  that  one. 
There  we  were  poundin'  over  the  rails  through 
Pennsylvania  at  a  mile-a-minute  clip,  the  tomato 
soup  doin'  a  merry-go-round  in  the  plates,  the 
engine  tootin'  for  grade  crossin's;  and  Sir  Peter, 
wearin'  his  pail  as  dignified  as  a  cardinal  does  a 
red  hat,  talkin'  just  as  if  he  was  back  on  the  farm, 
up  north  of  London.  I  don't  blame  Rufus 
Rastus  for  wearin'  his  eyes  on  the  outside.  They 
stuck  out  like  the  waist-buttons  on  a  Broadway 
cop,  and  he  hardly  knew  whether  he  was  waitin' 
on  table,  or  makin'  up  a  berth. 

With  his  second  glass  of  fizz  Sir  Peter  began  to 
thaw  a  little.  He  hadn't  paid  much  attention 


ioo  SHORTY  McCABE 

to  me  for  a  while,  passin'  most  of  his  remarks  over 
to  Mr.  Gordon;  but  all  of  a  sudden  he  comes  at 
me  with: 

"You're  a  Home  Ruler,  I  expect?" 
"Sure,"  says  I.  "Now,  spring  the  gag." 
But  if  there  was  a  stinger  to  it,  he  must  have 
lost  it  in  the  shuffle;  for  he  opens  up  a  line  of 
talk  that  I  didn't  have  the  key  to  at  all.  Mr. 
Gordon  tells  me  afterwards  it  was  English  politics 
and  that  Sir  Peter  was  tryin'  to  register  me  as  a 
Conservative.  Anyway,  I've  promised  to  vote 
for  Balfour,  or  somebody  like  that  next  election; 
so  I'm  goin'  to  send  word  to  Little  Tim  that  he 
needn't  come  around.  Had  to  do  it,  just  to 
please  the  old  gent.  By  the  time  we'd  got  to  the 
little  cups  of  black  he'd  switched  to  something 
else. 

"I  don't  suppose  you  know  anything  about 
railroads?"  says  he  to  Mr.  Gordon. 

Then  it  was  my  grin.  Railroads  is  what  Pyra- 
mid plays  with,  you  know.  He's  a  director  on 
three  or  four  lines  himself,  and  is  always  lookin' 
for  more.  It's  about  as  safe  to  leave  a  branch 
road  out  after  nightfall  when  Gordon's  around 
as  it  would  be  to  try  to  raise  watermelons  in 
Minetta  Lane.  He  grinned,  too,  and  said  some- 
thing about  not  knowing  as  much  about  'em  as 
he  did  once. 


SHORTY  McCABfi''  <   *•'  . 


With  that  Sir  Peter  lights  up  one  of 
Key  West  night-sticks  and  cuts  adrift  on  the 
railroad  business.  That  made  the  boss  kind  of 
sick  at  first.  Railroads  was  something  he  was 
tryin'  to  forget  for  the  evenin'.  But  there  wasn't 
any  shuttin'  the  old  jay  off.  And  say!  he  knew 
the  case-cards  all  right.  There  was  too  much 
high  finance  about  it  for  me  to  follow  close;  but 
anyways  I  seen  that  it  made  Mr.  Gordon  sit  up 
and  take  notice.  He'd  peg  in  a  question  now  and 
then,  and  got  the  old  one  so  stirred  up  that  after 
a  while  he  shed  the  bucket,  lugged  out  one  of  his 
bags,  and  flashed  a  lot  of  papers  done  up  in  neat 
little  piles.  He  said  it  was  a  report  he  was  goin' 
to  make  to  some  board  or  other,  if  ever  the  decimals 
would  quit  bothering  him  long  enough. 

Well,  that  sort  of  thing  might  keep  Mr.  Gordon 
awake,  but  not  for  mine.  Half-way  to  Baltimore 
I  turns  in,  leaving  'em  at  it.  I  had  a  good  snooze, 
too. 

Mr.  Gordon  comes  to  my  bunk  in  the  mornin', 
very  mysterious.  "Shorty,"  says  he,  "we're  in. 
I've  got  to  go  up  to  the  State  Department  for  an 
hour  or  so,  and  while  I'm  gone  I'd  like  you  to 
keep  an  eye  on  Sir  Peter.  If  he  takes  a  notion  to 
wander  off,  you  persuade  him  to  stay  until  I  get 
back." 

"What  you  say  goes,"  says  I. 


102  -SHORTY  McCABE 

1  shoved  up  the  shade  and  sees  that  they'd  put 
the  Adeline  down  at  the  end  of  the  train-shed. 
About  all  I  could  see  of  Washington  was  the  top  of 
old  George's  headstone  stickin'  up  over  a  freight- 
car.  I  fixed  myself  up  and  had  breakfast,  just  as 
if  I  was  in  a  boardin'-house,  and  then  sits  around 
waitin'  for  Sir  Peter.  He  an'  Danvers  shows  up 
after  a  while,  and  the  old  gent  calls  for  tea  and 
toast  and  jam.  Then  I  knows  he's  farther  off  his 
base  than  ever.  Think  of  truck  like  that  for 
breakfast!  But  he  gets  away  with  it,  and  then 
says  to  Danvers: 

"Time  we  were  off  for  the  city,  my  man." 

I  got  a  glimpse  of  trouble  ahead,  right  there; 
for  that  chump  of  a  Danvers  never  made  a  move 
when  I  gives  him  the  wink.  All  he  could  get  into 
that  peanut  head  of  his  at  one  time  was  to  collect 
those  leather  bags  and  get  ready  to  trot  around 
wherever  that  long-legged  old  lunatic  led  the  way. 

"They've  changed  the  tune  on  that  train  of 
yours,  Sir  Pete,"  says  I.  "She  don't  come  along 
until  ten-twenty-six  now,  spring  schedule,"  and 
I  winks  an  eye  loose  at  Danvers. 

"  Ton  my  word!"  says  Sir  Peter,  "you  here 
yet?  Danvers,  show  this  person  to  the  gates." 

"Yes,  sir,"  says  Danvers.  He  comes  up  to  me 
an'  whispers,  kind  of  ugly:  "I  sye  now,  you'll  'ave 
to  stop  chaffin'  Sir  Peter.  I  won't  'ave  it!" 


SHORTY  McCABE  103 

"Help!"  says  I.     "There's  a  rat  after  me." 

"Hi'll  bash  yer  bloomin'  nose  in!"  says  he, 
gettin'  pink  behind  the  ears. 

"Hi'll  write  to  the  bloomin'  pypers  habout  it 
if  you  do,"  says  I. 

I  was  wishin'  that  would  fetch  him,  and  it  did. 
He  comes  at  me  wide  open,  with  a  guard  like  a 
soft-shell  crab.  I  slips  down  the  state-room 
passage,  out  of  sight  of  Sir  Peter,  catches  Danvers 
by  the  scruff,  chucks  him  into  a  berth,  and  ties  him 
up  with  the  sheets,  as  careful  as  if  he  was  to  go 
by  express. 

"Now  make  all  the  holler  you  want,"  says  I. 
"It  won't  disturb  us  none,"  and  I  shut  the  door. 

But  Sir  Peter  was  a  different  proposition.  I 
didn't  want  to  rough-house  him.  He  was  too 
ancient;  and  anyway,  I  kind  of  liked  the  old  chap's 
looks.  He'd  forgot  all  about  Danvers,  and  was 
makin'  figures  on  an  envelope  when  I  got  back.  I 
let  him  figure  away,  until  all  of  a  sudden  he  puts 
up  his  pencil  and  lugs  out  that  bucket  again. 

"It's  quit  raining,"  says  I. 

"What  do  you  know  about  it?"  says  he.  "It's 
pouring  decimals,  just  pouring  'em.  But  I've  got 
to  get  my  report  in."  With  that  he  claps  on  the 
bucket,  grabs  a  bag  and  starts  for  the  car  door. 

It  was  up  to  me  to  make  a  quick  play ;  for  he  was 
just  ripe  to  go  buttin'  around  those  tracks  and 


104  SHORTY  McCABE 

run  afoul  of  a  switch-engine.  And  I  hated  to 
collar  him.  Just  then  I  spots  the  tennis-ball. 

"  Whoop-ee! "  says  I,  grabbin'  it  up  and  slammin' 
it  at  his  head.  I  made  a  bull's-eye  on  the  pail,  too. 
"That's  a  cigar  you  owe  me,"  says  I,  "and  I  gets 
two  more  cracks  for  my  nickel."  He  tried  to 
dodge;  but  I  slammed  it  at  him  a  couple  more 
times.  "Your  turn  now,"  says  I.  "Gimme  the 
bucket." 

Sounds  foolish,  don't  it?  I'll  bet  it  looked  a 
heap  foolisher  than  it  sounds;  but  I'd  just  thought 
of  something  a  feller  told  me  once.  He  was  a 
young  doctor  in  the  bat  ward  at  Belle vue. 
"They're  a  good  deal  like  kids,"  says  he,  "and  if 
you  remember  that,  you  can  handle  'em  easy." 

And  say,  Sir  Peter  seemed  to  look  tickled  and 
interested.  The  first  thing  I  knew  he'd  chucked 
the  bucket  on  my  head  and  was  doin'  a  war- 
dance,  lambastin'  that  tennis-ball  at  me  to  beat 
the  cars.  It  was  working,  all  right. 

When  he  got  tired  of  that  I  organized  a  shinny 
game,  with  an  umbrella  and  a  cane  for  sticks,  and 
a  couple  of  wicker  chairs  for  goals.  He  took  to 
that,  too.  First  he  shed  his  frock-coat,  then  his 
vest,  and  after  a  while  we  got  down  to  our  under- 
shirts. It  was  a  hot  game  from  the  word  go. 
There  wa'n't  any  half-way  business  about  Sir 
Peter.  When  he  started  out  to  drive  a  goal 


SHORTY  McCABE  105 

through  my  legs  he  whacked  good  and  strong  and 
often.  My  shins  looked  like  a  barber's  pole  after- 
wards; but  I  couldn't  squeal  then.  There  was 
no  way  to  duck  punishment  but  to  get  the  ball  into 
his  territory  and  make  him  guard  goal.  It  wa'n't 
such  a  cinch  to  do,  either,  for  he  was  a  lively  old 
gent  on  his  pins. 

After  about  half  an  hour  of  that,  you  can  bet 
I  wished  I'd  stuck  to  the  bucket  game.  But  Sir 
Peter  was  as  excited  over  it  as  a  boy  with  a  new 
pah*  of  roller-skates.  He  wouldn't  stand  for  any 
change  of  program,  and  he  wouldn't  stop  for 
breathin'-spells.  Rufus  Rastus  came  out  of  his 
coop  once  to  see  what  the  row  was  all  about; 
but  when  he  saw  us  mixed  up  in  a  scrimmage  for 
goal  he  says:  "Good  Lawd  ermighty!"  lets  out 
one  yell,  and  shuts  himself  up  with  his  canned 
soup  and  copper  pans.  I  guess  Danvers  thought 
I  was  draggin'  his  boss  around  by  the  hair;  for  I 
heard  him  yelp  once  in  a  while,  but  he  couldn't 
get  loose. 

Sir  Peter  began  to  leak  all  over  his  head,  and 
his  gray  hair  got  mussed  up,  and  his  eyes  was 
bulgin'  out;  but  I  couldn't  get  him  switched  to 
anything  else.  Not  much!  Shinny  was  a  new 
game  to  him  and  he  was  stuck  on  it.  "  Whee-yee ! ' ' 
he'd  yell,  and  swing  that  crooked-handled  cane, 
and  bang  would  go  a  fancy  gas  globe  into  a  million 


i©6  SHORTY  McCABE 

pieces.  But  a  little  thing  like  that  didn't  feaze  him. 
He  was  out  for  goals,  and  he  wasn't  particular  what 
he  hit  as  long  as  the  ball  was  kept  moving. 

It  was  a  hot  pace  he  set,  all  right.  Every  time 
he  swung  I  had  to  jump  two  feet  high,  or  else  get 
it  on  the  shins.  And  say!  I  jumped  when  I  could. 
I'd  have  given  a  sable-lined  overcoat  for  a  pair  of 
leg-guards  just  about  then;  and  if  I  could  have  had 
that  young  bug-ward  doctor  to  myself  for  about 
ten  minutes — well,  he'd  have  learned  something 
they  didn't  tell  him  at  Bellevue. 

Course,  I  don't  keep  up  reg'lar  ring  trainin'  these 
days ;  but  I'm  generally  fit  for  ten  rounds  or  so  any 
old  time.  I  thought  I  was  in  good  trim  then, 
until  that  dippy  old  snoozer  had  rushed  me  for 
about  twenty-five  goals.  Then  I  began  to  breathe 
hard  and  wish  someone  would  ring  the  gong  on 
him.  There  was  no  counting  on  when  Mr.  Gordon 
would  show  up;  but  his  footsteps  wouldn't  have 
made  me  sad.  I've  let  myself  in  for  some  jay 
stunts  in  my  time;  but  this  gettin'  tangled  up 
with  a  bad  dream  that  had  come  true — well,  that 
was  the  limit.  And  I'd  started  out  to  do  some- 
thing real  cute.  You  could  have  bought  me  for 
a  bunch  of  pink  trading  stamps. 

And  just  as  I  was  wondering  if  this  Bloomingdale 
stance  was  to  go  on  all  day,  Sir  Peter  gives  out  like 
a  busted  mainspring,  slumps  all  over  the  floor,  and 


SHORTY  McCABE  107 

lays  as  limp  as  if  his  jaw  had  connected  with  a 
pile-driver.  For  a  minute  or  so  I  was  scared  clear 
down  to  my  toe-nails;  but  after  I'd  sluiced  him 
with  ice-water  and  worked  over  him  a  little,  he 
came  back  to  the  boards.  He  was  groggy,  and  I 
reckon  things  was  loopin'  the  loops  when  he 
looked  at  'em;  but  his  blood  pump  was  doing 
business  again,  and  I  knew  he'd  feel  better  pretty 
soon. 

I  helped  him  up  on  the  bucket,  that  being  handi- 
est, and  threw  a  three-finger  slug  of  rye  into  him, 
and  then  he  began  to  take  an  inventory  of  things 
in  general,  kind  of  slow  and  dignified.  He  looks 
at  the  broken  glass  on  the  car  carpet,  at  the  chairs 
turned  bottom  up,  at  me  in  my  hard- work  costume, 
and  at  his  own  rig. 

"Really,  you  know,  really — I — I  don't  quite 
understand,"  he  says.  "Where — what — ' 

"Oh,  you're  ahead,"  says  I.  "I  wouldn't  swear 
to  the  score;  but  it's  your  odds." 

This  didn't  seem  to  satisfy  him,  though.  He 
kept  on  lookin'  around,  as  though  he'd  lost  some- 
thing. I  guessed  he  was  hunting  for  that  blasted 
cane. 

"See  here,"  says  I.  "You  get  the  decision, 
and  there  ain't  goin'  to  be  any  encore.  I've 
retired.  I've  had  enough  of  that  game  to  last  me 
until  I'm  as  old  as  you  are,  which  won't  be  for 


io8  SHORTY  McCABE 

two  or  three  seasons  on.  If  you're  dead  anxious 
for  more,  you  wait  until  Mr.  Gordon  comes  back 
and  challenge  him.  He's  a  sport." 

But  Sir  Peter  seemed  to  be  clear  off  the  alley. 
"My  good  man/'  says  he,  "I — I  don't  follow  you 
at  all.  Will  you  please  tell  me  where  I  am?" 

Now  say,  how  was  I  to  know  where  he  thought 
he  was?  What  was  the  name  of  that  place— 
Briskett  Arms?  I  didn't  want  to  chance  it. 

"This  is  the  same  old  stand,"  says  I,  "right 
where  you  started  an  hour  ago." 

"But,"  says  he—    "but  Lord  Winchester?" 

"He's  due  on  the  next  trolley,"  says  I.  "Had 
to  stop  off  at  the  gun-factory,  you  know." 

Ever  try  to  tear  off  a  lot  of  extemporaneous 
lies,  twenty  to  the  minute?  It's  no  pipe.  Worse 
than  being  on  the  stand  at  an  insurance  third 
degree.  I  couldn't  even  refuse  to  answer  on 
advice  of  counsel,  and  in  no  time  at  all  he  had  me 
twisted  up  into  a  bow-knot. 

" Young  man,"  says  he,  "I  think  you're  pre- 
varicating." 

"I'm  doin'  me  best,"  says  I;  "but  let's  cut 
that  out.  P'raps  you'd  feel  better  if  you  wore 
the  bucket  awhile." 

"Bucket?"  says  he.  And  I'll  be  put  on  the 
buzzer  if  he  didn't  throw  the  bluff  that  he'd 
never  had  the  thing  on  his  head. 


SHORTY  McCABE  109 

"Oh,  well/'  says  I,  "you've  got  a  right  to  lie 
some  if  you  want  to.  It's  your  turn,  anyway. 
But  let  me  swab  you  off  a  little." 

He  didn't  kick  on  that,  and  I  was  gettin'  busy 
with  warm  water  and  towels  when  the  door  opens, 
and  in  drifts  Mr.  Gordon  with  three  well-fed 
gents  behind  him. 

"Great  cats!"  says  he,  thro  win'  up  both  hands. 
"Shorty,  what  in  blazes  has  happened?" 

"Nothin'  much,"  says  I.  "We've  been  playin' 
a  little  shinny." 

"Shinny?"  says  he,  just  as  though  it  was 
something  I'd  invented. 

"Sure,"  says  I.  "And  Sir  Peter  won  out. 
As  a  shinny  player  he's  a  bird." 

Then  the  three  other  ducks  swarms  in,  and  the 
way  they  powwows  around  there  for  a  few  minutes 
was  enough  to  make  a  curtain  scene  for  a  Third 
avenue  melodrama. 

Mr.  Gordon  calmed  'em  down  though  [after 
a  bit,  and  then  I  got  a  chance.  I  was  a  little 
riled  by  that  time,  I  guess.  I  offered  to  tie 
pillows  on  both  hands  and  take  'em  all  three  at 
once,  kickin'  allowed. 

"  Oh,  come,  Shorty,"  says  Mr.  Gordon.  "  These 
gentlemen  have  been  a  little  hasty.  They  don't 
understand,  and  they're  great  friends  of  Sir  Peter. 
This  is  the  British  Ambassador,  Lord  Winchester, 


i  io  SHORTY  McCABE 

and  these  are  his  two  secretaries.  Now,  what 
about  this  shinny?" 

"It  was  a  stem- winder/'  says  I.  "Sir  Peter 
was  off  side  most  of  the  time;  but  I  don't  carry 
no  grouch  for  that." 

Then  I  told  'em  how  I'd  done  it  to  keep  him 
off  the  tracks,  and  how  he  got  so  warmed  up  he 
couldn't  stop  until  he  ran  out  of  steam.  They 
were  polite  enough  after  that.  We  shook  hands 
all  round,  and  I  went  in  and  resurrected  Danvers, 
and  they  got  Sir  Peter  fixed  up  so  that  he  was  fit 
to  go  in  a  cab,  and  the  whole  bunch  clears  out. 

In  about  an  hour  Mr.  Gordon  comes  back.  He 
wears  one  of  the  won't-come-off  kind,  and  steps 
like  he  was  feelin'  good  all  over.  "Professor," 
says  he,  "you  needn't  be  surprised  at  getting  a 
medal  of  honor  from  the  British  Government. 
You  seem  to  have  cured  Sir  Peter  of  the  bucket 
habit." 

"We're  quits,  then,"  says  I.  "He's  cured  me 
of  wanting  to  play  shinny.  Say,  did  you  find  out 
who  the  old  snoozer  was,  anyway?" 

"The  old  snoozer,"  says  he,  "is  the  crack 
financial  expert  of  England,  and  a  big  gun  gen- 
erally. He'd  been  over  here  looking  into  our 
railroads,  and  when  he  gets  back  he's  to  make  a 
report  that  will  be  accepted  as  law  and  gospel 
in  every  capital  of  Europe.  It  was  while  he 


SHORTY  McCABE  in 

was  working  on  that  job  that  his  brain  took  a 
vacation;  and  it  was  your  shinny  game,  the 
doctors  say,  that  saved  him  from  the  insane  asylum. 
You  seem  to  have  brought  him  back  to  his  senses." 

"He's  welcome,"  says  I;  "but  I  wish  the 
British  Government  would  ante  up  a  bottle  of 
spavin-cure.  Look  at  that  shin." 

"We'll  make  'em  pay  for  that  shin,"  says  he, 
with  a  kind  of  it's-coming-to-us  grin.  "And  by 
the  way,  Shorty;  those  few  after-dinner  remarks 
that  Sir  Peter  made  about  his  report — you  could 
forget  about  hearing  'em,  couldn't  you?" 

"I  can  forget  everything  but  the  bucket," 
says  I. 

"Good,"  says  Mr.  Gordon.  "It — it's  a  private 
matter  for  a  while." 

We  took  a  hansom  ride  around  town  until  the 
noon  limited  was  ready  to  pull  out.  Never  saw 
a  car  ride  do  a  man  so  much  good  as  that  one  back 
to  New  York  seemed  to  do  Mr.  Gordon.  He  was 
as  pleased  with  himself  as  if  he  was  a  red  apple 
on  the  top  branch. 

It  was  a  couple  of  weeks,  too,  before  I  knew  why. 
He  let  it  out  one  day  after  we'd  had  our  little 
kaffee  klatch  with  the  gloves.  Seems  that 
hearing  Sir  Peter  tell  what  he  was  goin'  to  report 
about  American  railroads  was  just  like  givuY 
Gordon  an  owner's  tip  on  a  handicap  winner; 


ii2  SHORTY  McCABE 

and  Pyramid  don't  need  to  be  hit  on  the  head 
with  a  maul,  either.  Near  as  I  can  get  it,  he 
worked  that  inside  information  for  all  it  was  worth 
and  there's  a  bunch  down  around  Broad  street 
that  don't  know  just  what  hit  'em  yet. 

Me?  Little  Rollo?  Oh,  I'm  satisfied.  With 
what  I  got  out  of  that  trip  I  could  buy  enough 
shin  salve  to  cure  up  all  the  bruises  in  New  York. 
That's  on  the  foot  rule,  too. 


CHAPTER  V 

IT  was  that  little  excursion  with  Mr.  Gordon  that 
puts  me  up  to  sendin'  over  to  Williamsburg  after 
Swifty  Joe  Gallagher,  and  signin'  him  as  my  first 
assistant.  Thinks  I;  if  I'm  liable  to  go  strollin' 
off  like  that  any  more,  I've  got  to  have  someone 
that'll  keep  the  joint  open  while  I'm  gone.  I 
didn't  pick  Swifty  for  his  looks,  nor  for  his  mam- 
moth intellect.  But  he's  as  straight  as  a  string, 
and  he'll  mind  like  a  setter  dog. 

Well,  say,  it  was  lucky  I  got  him  just  as  I  did. 
I  hadn't  much  more'n  broke  him  in  before  I  runs 
up  against  this  new  one.  Understand,  I  ain't 
no  fad  chaser.  I  don't  pine  for  the  sport- 
ing-extra life,  with  a  new  red-ink  stunt  for 
every  leaf  on  the  calendar-pad.  I  got  me  studio 
here,  an'  me  real-money  reg'lars  that  keeps 
the  shop  runnin',  and  a  few  of  the  boys  to  drop 
around  now  and  then;  so  I'm  willing  to  let  it  go 
at  that.  Course,  though,  I  ain't  no  side-stepper. 
I  takes  what's  comin'  an'  tries  to  look  pleas- 
ant. 

But  this  little  hot-foot  act  with  Rajah  and 
Pinckney  had  me  dizzy  for  a  few  rounds,  sure  as 
ever.  And  I  wouldn't  thought  it  of  Pinckney. 
Why,  when  he  first  shows  up  here  I  says  to  myself: 


ii4  SHORTY  McCABE 

"  Next  floor,  Reginald,  for  the  manicure."  He  was 
one  of  that  kind:  slim,  white-livered,  feather- 
weight style  of  chap — looked  like  he'd  been  trainin' 
on  Welch  rabbits  and  Egyptian  cigarettes  at  the 
club  for  about  a  year. 

"Is  this  Professor  McCabe?"  says  he. 

"You  win,"  says  I.  "What'll  it  be?  Me  class 
in  crochet  ain't  begun  yet." 

He  kind  of  looked  me  over  steady  like,  and  then 
he  passes  out  a  card  which  says  as  how  he  was 
Lionel  Pinckney  Ogden  Bruce. 

"  Do  I  have  my  choice? "  says  I.  "  Cause  if  I  do 
I  nips  onto  Pinckney — it's  cute.  Well,  Pinckney, 
what's  doing?" 

He  drapes  himself  on  a  chair,  gets  his  little 
silver-headed  stick  balanced  just  so  between  his 
knees,  pulls  his  trousers  up  to  high-water  mark, 
and  takes  an  inventory  of  me  from  the  mat  up. 
And  say!  when  he  got  through  I  felt  as  though  he 
knew  it  all,  from  how  much  I'd  weigh  in  at  to 
where  I  had  my  laundry  done.  Yes,  Pinckney 
had  a  full  set  of  eyes.  They  were  black;  not  just 
ordinary  black,  same's  a  hole  in  a  hat,  but  shiny 
an7  sparklin',  like  patent  leathers  in  the  sun.  If 
it  hadn't  been  for  them  eyes  you  might  have 
thought  he  was  one  of  the  eight-day  kind  that 
was  just  about  to  run  down.  I  ought  to  have  got 
next  to  Pinckney's  model,  just  by  his  lamps;  but 


SHORTY  McCABE  115 

I  didn't.  I'm  learning  though,  and  if  I  last  long 
enough  I'll  be  a  wise  guy  some  day. 

Well,  when  Pinckney  finishes  his  census  of  me 
he  says:  "Professor,  I  wish  to  take  a  private 
course,  or  whatever  you  call  it.  I  would  like  to 
engage  your  exclusive  services  for  about  three 
weeks." 

"Chic,  chic!"  says  I.  "Things  like  that  come 
high,  young  man." 

Pinckney  digs  up  a  sweet  little  check-book, 
unlimbers  a  fountain-pen,  and  asks :  "  How  much, 
please?" 

"Seein'  as  this  is  the  slack  season  with  me,  I'll 
make  it  fifty  per,"  says  I. 

"Hour  or  day?"  says  he. 

Maybe  I  was  breathin'  a  bit  hard,  but  I  says 
careless  like:  "Oh,  call  it  fifty  a  day  and  ex- 
penses." 

Business  with  the  pen.  "That's  for  the  first 
week,"  says  Pinckney,  and  I  see  he'd  reckoned  in 
Sunday  and  all. 

"When  can  you  come  on?"  says  I. 

"  I'll  begin  now,  if  you  don't  mind,"  says  he. 

Then  it  was  up  to  me ;  so  I  goes  to  work.    Inside 

ten  minutes  I  had  a  fair  notion  of  how  Pinckney 
was  put  up.  He  wasn't  as  skimpy  as  he'd  looked 
from  the  outside,  but  I  saw  that  it  wouldn't  be 
safe  to  try  the  mitts:  I  might  forget  and  put  a 


n6  SHORTY  McCABE 

little  steam  into  the  punch — then  it  would  be  a 
case  of  sweepin'  up  the  pieces. 

"Hold  that  out/'  says  I,  chuckin'  him  the  shot- 
bag. 

He  put  it  out.;  but  all  there  was  in  him  was 
bracin'  that  arm. 

"  What  you  need,"  says  I,  "  is  a  little  easy  track- 
work  in  the  open;  plenty  of  cold  water  before 
breakfast,  and  sleep  in  ten-hour  doses." 

"I  couldn't  sleep  five  hours  at  a  stretch,  much 
less  ten,"  says  he. 

"We'll  take  something  for  that,"  says  I. 

We  gets  together  a  couple  suits  of  running-togs, 
sweaters,  towels  and  things,  and  goes  down-stairs 
where  Pinckney  has  a  big  plum-colored  homicide 
wagon  waitin'  for  him. 

"Tell  Goggles  to  point  for  Jerome-ave.,"  says  I. 
"There's  a  track  out  there  we  can  use." 

On  the  way  up  Pinckney  lets  loose  a  hint  or  two 
that  gives  me  an  outline  map  of  his  particular  case. 
He  hadn't  been  hittin'  up  any  real  paresis  pace, 
so  far  as  I  could  make  out.  He'd  just  been  trying 
to  keep  even  with  the  coupons  and  dividends  that 
the  old  man  had  left  him,  burnin'  it  as  it  came  in, 
and  he'd  run  out  of  matches.  Guess  there  was  a 
bunch  of  millinery  somewhere  in  the  background 
too,  for  he  was  anxious  about  how  he'd  feel  around 
Horse-Show  time.  Maybe  Pinckney  had  made  his 


SHORTY  McCABE  117 

plans  to  be  more  or  less  agreeable  about  then; 
but  when  he  got  a  kinetoscope  picture  of  himself 
in  a  sanitarium  he  had  a  scare  thrown  into  him. 
Next  some  one  gives  him  a  tip  on  the  Physical 
Culture  Studio  and  he  pikes  for  Shorty  McCabe. 

Well,  I've  trained  a  good  many  kinds,  but  I'd 
never  tried  to  pump  red  corpuscles  into  an  amateur 
Romeo  before.  There  was  the  three-fifty,  though, 
and  I  sails  in. 

"Head  up  now,  elbows  in,  weight  on  your  toes, 
an'  we're  off  in  a  bunch!"  says  I.  "Steady  there, 
take  it  easy!  This  ain't  no  hundred-yard  sprint; 
this  is  a  mile  performance.  There,  that's  better! 
Dog-trot  it  to  the  three-quarters,  and  if  your  cork 
ain't  pulled  by  then  you  can  spurt  under  the 
wire." 

But  Pinckney  had  lost  all  his  ambition  before 
we'd  got  half  round.  At  the  finish  he  was  breathin' 
more  air  than  his  wind- tanks  had  known  in  months. 

"Now  for  the  second  lap,"  says  I. 

"What?  Around  that  fence  again?"  says 
Pinckney.  "  Why,  I  saw  all  there  was  to  see  last 
time.  Can't  we  try  a  new  one?" 

"Do  you  think  mile  tracks  come  in  clusters?" 
says  I. 

"  Why  not  just  run  up  the  road?  "  asks  Pinckney. 

"The  road  it  is,"  says  I. 

We  fixed  it  up  that  Goggles  was  to  follow  along 


ii8  SHORTY  McCABE 

with  the  goose-cart  and  honk-honk  the  quarters  to 
us  as  he  read  'em  on  his  speed-clock.  We  were 
three  miles  nearer  Albany  when  we  quit,  and 
Pinckney  was  leakin'  like  a  squeezed  sponge. 

"  Throw  her  wide  open  and  pull  up  at  the  nearest 
road-house/7  says  I  to  Goggles. 

He  found  one  before  I'd  got  all  the  wraps  on 
Pinckney,  and  in  no  time  at  all  we  were  under  the 
shower.  There  was  less  of  that  marble-slab  look 
about  Pinckney  when  he  began  to  harness  up 
again.  He  thought  he  could  eat  a  little  something, 
too.  I  stood  over  the  block  while  the  man  cut  that 
three-inch  hunk  from  the  top  of  the  round,  and 
then  I  made  a  mortal  enemy  of  the  cook  by 
jugglin'  the  broiler  myself.  But  Pinckney  did 
more  than  nibble.  After  that  he  wanted  to  turn 
in.  Sleep?  I  had  to  lift  him  out  at  four  G.  M. 
The  water-cure  woke  him,  though.  He  tried  to 
beg  off  on  the  last  few  glasses,  but  I  made  him 
down  'em.  Then  we  starts  towards  Boston, 
Goggles  behind,  and  Pinckney  discovers  the  first 
sunrise  he's  seen  for  years. 

Well,  that's  the  way  we  went  perambulatin'  up 
into  the  pie-belt.  First  we'd  jog  a  few  miles,  then 
hop  aboard  the  whiz-wagon  and  spurt  for  running 
water.  We  didn't  travel  on  any  schedule  or  try 
to  make  any  dates.  Half  the  time  we  didn't 
know  where  we  were,  and  didn't  care.  When 


SHORTY  McCABE  119 

bath-tubs  got  scarce  we'd  hunt  for  a  pond  or  a 
creek  in  the  woods.  In  one  of  the  side-hampers 
on  the  car  I  found  a  quick-lunch  outfit,  so  I  gets 
me  a  broiler,  lays  in  round  steak  and  rye  bread,  and 
twice  a  day  I  does  the  hobo  act  over  a  roadside 
fire.  That  tickled  Pinckney  to  death.  Nights 
we'd  strike  any  place  where  they  had  beds  to  let. 
Pinckney  didn't  punch  the  mattress  or  turn  up 
his  nose  at  the  quilt  patterns.  When  it  came 
dark  he  was  glad  enough  to  crawl  anywhere. 

Now  this  was  all  to  the  good.  Never  saw  quite 
so  much  picnic  weather  rattled  out  of  the  box  all 
at  one  throw.  And  the  work  didn't  break  your 
back.  Why,  it  was  like  bein'  laid  off  for  a  vacation 
on  double  pay — until  Rajah  butted  in  and  began  to 
mix  things. 

We'd  pulled  into  some  little  town  or  other  up 
in  Connecticut  soon  after  sun-up,  lookin'  for  soft 
boiled  eggs,  when  a  couple  of  real  gents  in  last- 
year  ulsters  pipes  us  off  and  saunters  up  to  the 
car.  They  spots  Pinckney  for  the  cash-carrier 
and  makes  the  play  at  him. 

It  was  a  hard-luck  symposium,  of  course;  but 
there  was  more  to  it  than  just  a  panhandle  touch. 
They  were  all  there  was  left  of  the  Imperial  Con- 
solidated Circus  and  Roman  Menagerie.  They  had 
lost  their  top  and  benches  in  a  fire,  deputy-sheriffs 
had  nabbed  the  wagons  and  horses,  the  company 


120  SHORTY  McCABE 

was  hoofing  back  to  Broadway,  and  all  they  had 
left  was  Rajah.  Would  the  honorable  gentleman 
come  and  take  a  squint  at  Rajah? 

For  why?  Well,  it  was  this  way :  They  hated  to 
do  it,  Rajah  being  an  old  friend,  just  like  one  of  the 
family,  you  might  say,  but  there  wasn't  anything 
else.  They'd  just  got  to  hock  Rajah  to  put  the 
Imperial  Consolidated  in  commission  again.  The 
worst  of  it  was,  these  here  villagers  didn't  appreci- 
ate what  gilt-edged  security  Rajah  was.  But  his 
honor  would  see  that  the  two-fifty  was  nothing  at 
all  to  lend  out  for  a  beggarly  week  or  so  on  such 
a  magnificent  specimen.  Why,  Rajah  was  as 
good  as  real  estate  or  Government  bonds.  As 
for  selling  him,  ten  thousand  wouldn't  be  a  temp- 
tation. Would  the  gentlemen  just  step  around  to 
the  stable? 

It  was  then  I  began  to  put  up  the  odds  on  Pinck- 
ney.  I  got  a  wink  from  them  black  eyes  of  his, 
and  there  was  the  very  divil  an'  all  in  'em,  with 
his  face  as  straight  as  a  crowbar. 

"Certainly,"  says  he,  "we'll  be  happy  to  meet 
Rajah." 

They  had  him  moored  to  one  of  the  floor-beams 
with  an  ox-chain  around  his  nigh  hind  foot.  He 
wasn't  as  big  as  all  out  doors,  nor  he  wasn't  any 
vest-pocket  edition  either.  As  elephants  go,  he 
wouldn't  have  made  the  welter-weight  class  by 


SHORTY  McCABE  121 

about  a  ton.  He  was  what  I'd  call  just  a  handy 
size,  about  two  bureaus  high  by  one  wide.  His 
iv'ry  stoop  rails  had  been  sawed  off  close  to  his 
jaw,  so  he  didn't  look  any  more  wicked  than  a 
foldin'-bed.  And  his  eyes  didn't  have  that  shifty 
wait-till-I-get-loose  look  they  generally  does.  They 
were  kind  of  soft,  widowy,  oh-me-poor-cheild  eyes. 

"  He  is  sad,  very  sad,  about  all  this,"  says  one  of 
the  real  gents.  "Know?  Rajah  knows  almost 
as  much  as  we  do,  sir." 

Pinckney  took  his  word  for  it.  "I  think  I  shall 
accommodate  you  with  that  loan,"  says  he. 
"Come  into  the  hotel." 

Say,  I  didn't  think  you  could  gold-brick  Pinck- 
ney as  easy  as  that.  One  of  the  guys  wrote  out  a 
receipt  and  Pinckney  shoved  it  into  his  pocket 
handin'  over  a  wad  of  yellow-backs.  They  didn't 
lose  any  time  about  headin'  southeast,  those  two 
in  the  ulsterets.  Then  we  goes  back  to  have  an- 
other look  at  Rajah. 

"It's  a  wonderful  thing,  professor,  this  pride 
of  possession,"  says  Pinckney.  "Only  a  few 
persons  in  the  world  own  elephants.  I  am  one 
of  them.  Even  though  it  is  only  for  a  week,  and 
he  is  miles  away,  I  shall  feel  that  I  own  Rajah, 
and  it  will  make  me  glad." 

Then  he  winks,  so  I  knows  he's  just  bein'  gay. 
But  Rajah  didn't  seem  so  gladsome.  He  was 


122  SHORTY  McCABE 

rockin'  his  head  back  and  forth,  and  just  as  we 
gets  there  out  rolls  a  big  tear,  about  a  tum- 
blerful. 

"Can't  we  do  some  thing  to  chirk  him  up  a  bit?  " 
says  I.  "He  seems  to  take  it  hard,  being  hung 
up  on  a  ticket." 

"There's  something  the  matter  with  this  ele- 
phant," says  Pinckney,  taking  a  front  view  of 
him.  "He's  in  pain.  See  if  you  can't  find  a 
veterinary,  professor." 

Yes,  they  said  there  was  a  horse-doctor  knockin' 
around  the  country  somewhere.  He  worked  in 
the  shingle-mill  by  spells,  and  then  again  hi  the 
chair-factory,  or  did  odd  jobs.  A  blond-haired 
native  turned  up  who  was  sure  the  Doc  had  gone 
hog-killin'  up  to  the  corners.  So  I  goes  back  to 
the  stable. 

"I've  found  out,"  says  Pinckney.  "It's  tooth- 
ache. He  showed  me.  Open  up,  Rajah,  and  let 
the  professor  see.  Up,  up!" 

Rajah  was  accommodatin'.  He  unhinged  the 
top  half  of  his  face  to  give  me  a  private  view.  We 
used  a  box  of  matches  locating  that  punky  grinder. 
There  was  a  hole  in  it  big  enough  to  drop  a  pool- 
ball  into.  Talk  about  your  chamber  of  horrors! 
Think  what  it  must  be  to  be  as  big  as  that  and  feel 
bad  all  over. 

"I  never  worked  in  an  open-all-night  painless 


SHORTY  McCABE 


123 


shop,"  says  I,  "but  I  think  I  could  do  something 
for  that  if  I  could  tap  a  drug  store." 

"  Good/'  says  Pinckney.  "  We  passed  one  down 
the  road.  " 

They  kept  grindstones  and  stove-polish  and 
dress-patterns  there  too,  but  they  had  a  row  of 
bottles  in  one  corner. 

"Gimme  a  roll  of  cotton-battin'  an'  a  quart  of 
oil  of  cloves,"  says  I  to  the  man. 

He  grinned  and  ripped  a  little  ten-cent  bottle 
of  toothache  drops  off  a  card.  "  It  may  feel  that 
way,  but  you'll  find  this  plenty,"  says  he. 

"You  get  busy  with  my  order,"  says  I.  "This 
ain't  my  ache,  it's  Rajah's,  and  Rajah's  an  ele- 
phant." 

"Sho!"  says  he,  and  hands  over  all  he  had  in 
stock.  I  went  back  on  the  jump.  We  made  a 
wad  half  as  big  as  your  head,  soaked  it  in  the 
clove  oil  and  rammed  it  down  with  a  nail-hammer. 
It  was  the  fromage,  all  right.  And  say!  Ever 
see  an  elephant  grin  and  look  tickled  and  try  to 
say  thank  you?  The  way  he  talked  deaf  and 
dumb  with  his  trunk  and  shook  hands  with  us  and 
patted  us  on  the  back  was  almost  as  human  as 
the  way  a  man  acts  when  the  jury  brings  in  "  Not 
guilty."  Inside  of  three  minutes  Rajah  was  that 
kinky  he  tried  to  do  a  double-shuffle  and  nearly 
wrecked  the  barn.  It  made  us  feel  good  too,  and 


124  SHORTY  McCABE 

we  stood  around  there  and  threw  bouquets  at 
ourselves  for  what  we'd  done. 

Then  the  cook  came  out  and  wanted  to  know 
should  she  keep  right  on  boiling  them  eggs  or  take 
'em  off ;  so  we  remembers  about  breakfast.  Callin' 
for  a  new  deal  on  the  eggs,  we  sent  out  word  for 
'em  to  fix  up  a  tub  of  hot  mash  for  Rajah  and  told 
the  landlord  to  give  our  friend  the  best  in  the 
stable. 

Rajah  was  fetchin'  the  bottom  of  the  tub  when 
we  went  out  to  say  good-by.  He  stretched  his 
trunk  out  after  us  as  we  went  through  the  door. 
We'd  climbed  into  the  car  and  was  just  gettin' 
under  way  when  we  hears  things  smash,  and 
looks  back  to  see  Rajah,  with  a  section  of  the 
stable  floor  draggin'  behind,  coming  after  us  on 
the  gallop. 

"  Beat  it ! "  says  I  to  Goggles,  and  he  was  reachin' 
for  the  speed  lever,  when  he  sees  a  town  constable, 
with  a  tin  badge  like  a  stove-lid,  pull  a  brass  watch 
on  us. 

"What's  the  limit?"  shouts  Pinckney. 

"Ten  an  hour  or  ten  dollars,"  says  he. 

"Here's  your  ten  and  costs,"  says  Pinckney, 
tossing  him  a  sawbuck.  "Go  ahead,  Frangois." 

We  jumped  into  that  village  ordinance  at  a 
forty-mile  an  hour  clip  and  would  have  had  Rajah 
hull  down  in  about  two  minutes,  but  Pinckney  had 


SHORTY  McCABE  125 

to  take  one  last  look.  The  poor  old  mutt  had 
quit  after  a  few  jumps.  He  had  squat  in  the 
middle  of  the  road,  lifted  up  his  trombone  frontis- 
piece and  was  bellowin'  out  his  grief  like  a  calf 
that  has  lost  its  mommer.  Pinckney  couldn't 
stand  for  that  for  a  minute. 

"I  say  now,  we'll  have  to  go  back,"  says  he. 
"That  wail  would  haunt  me  for  days  if  I 
didn't." 

So  back  we  goes  to  Rajah,  and  he  almost  stands 
on  his  head,  he's  so  glad  to  see  us  again. 

"  We'll  just  have  to  slip  away  without  his  knowing 
it  next  time,"  says  Pinckney.  "Perhaps  he  will 
get  over  his  gratitude  in  an  hour  or  so." 

We  unhitches  Rajah  from  the  stable  floor  and 
starts  back  for  the  hotel.  The  landlord  met  us 
half-way. 

"Don't  you  bring  that  critter  near  my  place 
ag'in!"  shouts  he.  "Take  him  away  before  he 
tears  the  house  down." 

An'  no  jollyin'  nor  green  money  would  change 
that  hayseed's  mind.  The  whole  population  was 
with  him  too.  While  we  were  jawin'  about  it, 
along  comes  the  town  marshal  with  some  kind  of 
injunction  warnin'  us  to  remove  Rajah,  the  same 
bein'  a  menace  to  life  and  property. 

There  wa'n't  nothing  for  it  but  to  sneak.  We 
moves  out  of  that  burg  at  half  speed,  with  old 


126  SHORTY  McCABE 

Rajah  paddin'  close  behind,  his  trunk  restin' 
affectionately  on  the  tonneau-back  and  a  kind  of 
satisfied  right-to-honie  look  in  them  little  eyes  of 
his.  Made  me  feel  like  a  pair  of  yellow  shoes  at 
a  dance,  but  Pinckney  seemed  to  think  there  was 
something  funny  about  it.  "  '  And  over  the  hills 
and  far  away  the  happy  Princess  followed  him/ 
as  Tennyson  puts  it,"  says  he. 

"  Tennyson  was  dead  onto  his  job,"  says  I. 
"But  when  do  we  annex  the  steam  calliope  and 
the  boys  in  red  coats  with  banners?  We  ought 
to  have  the  rest  of  the  grand  forenoon  parade,  or 
else  shake  Rajah." 

"Oh,  perhaps  we  can  find  quarters  for  him  in  the 
next  town,  where  he  hasn't  disgraced  himself," 
says  Pinckney. 

Pinckney  hadn't  counted  on  the  telephone, 
though.  A  posse  with  shot-guns  and  bench- 
warrants  met  us  a  mile  out  from  the  next  place 
and  shooed  us  away.  They'd  heard  that  Rajah 
was  a  man-killer  and  they  had  brought  along  a 
pound  of  arsenic  to  feed  him.  After  they'd  been 
coaxed  from  behind  their  barricade,  though,  and 
had  seen  what  a  gentle,  confidin'  beast  Rajah 
really  was,  they  compromised  by  letting  us  take 
a  road  that  led  into  the  next  county. 

"This  is  gettin'  sultry,"  says  I  as  we  goes  on  the 
side-track. 


SHORTY  McCABE  127 

"I  am  enjoying  it,"  says  Pinckney.  "Now 
let's  have  some  road  work." 

Say,  you  ought  to  have  seen  that  procession. 
First  comes  me  and  Pinckney,  in  running  gear; 
then  Rajah,  hoofing  along  at  our  heels,  as  joyous 
as  a  chowder  party;  and  after  him  Goggles,  with 
the  benzine  wagon.  Seems  to  me  I've  heard  yarns 
about  how  grateful  dumb  beasts  could  be  to  folks 
that  had  done  'em  a  good  turn,  but  Rajah's  act 
made  them  tales  seem  like  sarsaparilla  ads.  He 
was  chock  full  of  gratitude.  He  was  nutty  over 
it.  Seemed  like  he  couldn't  think  of  anything 
else  but  that  wholesale  toothache  of  his  and  how 
he'd  got  shut  of  it.  He  just  adopted  us  on  the 
spot.  Whenever  we  stopped  he'd  hang  around 
and  look  us  over,  kind  of  admirin',  and  we  couldn't 
move  a  step  but  he  was  there,  flappin'  his  big 
ears  and  swingin'  his  trunk,  just  as  though  he 
was  sayin':  "Whoope-e-e,  me  fellers!  You're 
the  real  persimmons,  you  are." 

We  couldn't  find  a  hotel  where  they'd  take  us 
in  that  night,  so  we  had  to  bribe  a  farmer  to  let 
us  use  his  spare  bed  rooms.  We  tethered  Rajah 
to  a  big  apple-tree  just  under  our  windows  to  keep 
him  quiet,  and  let  him  browse  on  a  Rose  of  Sharon 
bush.  He  only  ripped  off  the  rain  pipe  and  trod 
a  flower-bed  as  hard  as  a  paved  court. 

At  breakfast  Pinckney  remarks,  sort  of  soothin' : 


128  SHORTY  McCABE 

"We  might  as  well  enjoy  Rajah's  society  while  we 
have  it.  I  suppose  those  circus  men  will  be  after 
him  in  a  few  days." 

Then  he  remembers  that  receipt  and  pulls  it  out. 
I  could  see  something  was  queer  by  the  way  he 
screwed  up  his  mouth.  He  tosses  the  paper  over 
to  me.  Say!  do  you  know  what  them  two 
ulsteret  guys  had  done?  They'd  given  Pinckney 
a  bill  of  sale,  makin'  over  all  rights,  privileges  and 
good-will  entire. 

"You're  it,"  says  I. 

"So  it  seems,"  says  Pinckney.  "But  I  hardly 
know  whether  I've  got  Rajah  or  Rajah's  got  me." 

"If  I  owned  something  I  didn't  want,"  says  I, 
"seems  to  me  I'd  sell  it.  There  must  be  other 
come-ons." 

"We  will  sell  him,"  says  Pinckney. 

Well,  we  tried.  For  three  or  four  days  we  didn't 
do  anything  else;  and  say,  when  I  think  of  them 
days  they  seem  like  a  mince-pie  dream.  We  did 
our  handsomest  to  make  those  Nutmeggers  believe 
that  they  needed  Rajah  in  their  business,  that  he 
would  be  handy  to  have  around  the  place.  But 
they  couldn't  see  it.  We  argued  with  about  fifty 
horny-handed  plow-pushers,  showin'  'em  how 
Rajah  could  pull  more'n  a  string  of  oxen  a  block 
long,  and  could  be  let  out  for  stump-digging  in 
summer,  or  as  a  snow-plough  in  winter.  We 


SHORTY  McCABE  129 

tried  liverymen,  storekeepers,  summer  cottagers; 
but  the  nearest  we  came  to  making  a  sale  was  to 
a  brewer  who'd  just  built  a  new  house  with  red 
and  yellow  fancy  woodwork  all  over  the  front  of 
it.  He  thought  Rajah  might  do  for  a  lawn 
ornament  and  make  himself  useful  as  a  fountain 
during  dry  spells,  but  when  he  noticed  that 
Rajah  didn't  have  any  tusks  he  said  it  was  all 
off.  He  knew  where  he  could  buy  a  whole  cast- 
iron  menagerie,  with  all  the  frills  thrown  in,  at 
half  the  price. 

And  we  wa'n't  holding  Rajah  at  any  swell  figure. 
He  was  on  the  bargain  counter  when  the  sale  began. 
Every  day  was  a  fifty-per-cent.  clearance  with 
us.  We  were  closing  out  our  line  of  elephants  on 
account  of  retiring  from  business,  and  Rajah  was 
a  remnant. 

But  they  wouldn't  buy.  Generally  they  threat- 
ened to  set  the  dogs  on  us.  It  was  worse  than 
trying  to  sell  a  cargo  of  fur  overcoats  in  Panama. 
In  time  it  began  to  leak  through  into  our  heads 
that  Rajah  wa'n't  negotiable.  Didn't  seem  to 
trouble  him  any.  He  was  just  as  glad  to  be  with 
us  as  at  first,  followed  us  around  like  a  pet  poodle, 
and  got  away  with  his'^bale  of  hay  as  regular  as  a 
Rial  to  hamfatter  raidin'  the  free  lunch. 

"Is  it  a  life  sentence,  Pinckney?"  says  I.  "Is 
this  twin  foster-brother  act  to  a  mislaid  elephant 


i3o  SHORTY  McCABE 

to  be  a  continuous  performance?  If  it  is  we'd 
better  hit  the  circuit  regular  and  draw  our  dough 
on  salary  day.  For  me,  I'm  sick  of  havin'  folks 
act  like  we  was  a  quarantine  station.  Let's 
anchor  Rajah  to  something  solid  and  skiddoo." 

But  Pinckney  couldn't  stand  it  to  think  of 
Rajah  being  left  to  suffer.  He  was  gettin'  kind 
of  sore  on  the  business,  just  the  same.  Then  he 
plucks  a  thought.  We  wires  to  a  friend  of  his  in 
Newport  to  run  down  to  the  big  circus  headquarters 
and  jolly  them  into  sending  an  elephant-trainer 
up  to  us. 

"A  trainer  will  know  how  to  coax  Rajah  off," 
says  he,  "and  perhaps  he  will  take  him  as  a  gift." 

"It's  easy  money,"  says  I. 

But  it  wasn't.  That  duck  at  Newport  sends 
back  a  message  that  covers  four  sheets  of  yellow 
paper,  tellin'  how  glad  he  was  to  get  track  of 
Pinckney  again  and  how  he  must  come  down 
right  away.  Oh,  they  wanted  Pinckney  bad! 
It  was  like  the  tap  of  the  bell  for  a  twenty-round 
go  with  the  referee  missin'.  Seems  that  Mrs. 
Jerry  Toynbee  was  tryin'  to  pull  off  one  of  those 
back-yard  affairs  that  win  newspaper  space- 
some  kind  of  a  fool  amateur  circus — and  they'd 
got  to  have  Pinckney  there  to  manage  it  or  the 
thing  would  fush.  As  for  the  elephant-trainer, 
he'd  forgot  that. 


SHORTY  McCABE  131 

"By  Jove!"  says  Pinckney,  real  sassy  like. 

"That's  drawin'  it  mild/'  says  I.  "Would  you 
like  the  loan  of  a  few  able-bodied  cuss-words?" 

"But  I  have  an  idea,"  says  Pinckney. 

"Handcuff  it,"  says  I;  "it's  a  case  of  breakin' 
and  enterin'." 

But  he  didn't  have  so  much  loft-room  to  let, 
after  all.  His  first  move  was  to  hunt  up  a  railroad 
station  and  charter  a  box-car.  We  carpets  it 
with  hay,  has  a  man  knock  together  a  couple  of 
high  bunks  in  one  end,  and  throws  in  some  new 
horse-blankets. 

"Now,"  says  Pinckney,  "you  and  I  and  Rajah 
will  start  for  Newport  on  the  night  freight." 

"Have  you  asked  Rajah?"  says  I. 

But  Rajah  knew  all  about  riding  in  box-cars. 
He  walked  up  the  plank  after  us  just  like  we  was 
a  pair  of  Noahs.  Goggles  was  sent  off  over  the 
road  with  the  cart,  all  by  his  lonesome. 

I've  traveled  a  good  deal  with  real  sports,  and 
once  I  came  back  from  St.  Louis  with  the  delegates 
to  a  national  convention,  but  this  was  my  first  trip 
in  an  animal  car.  It  wasn't  so  bad,  though,  and  it 
was  all  over  by  daylight  next  morning.  There 
wasn't  anyone  in  sight  but  milkmen  and  bakers' 
boys  as  we  drove  down  Belle vue-ave.,  with  Rajah 
grippin'  the  rear  axle  of  our  cab.  I  don't  know  how 
he  felt  about  buttin'  into  Newport  society  at  that 


i32  SHORTY  McCABE 

time  of  day,  but  I  looked  for  a  cop  to  pinch  us  as 
second-story  men. 

We  fetches  up  at  the  swellest  kind  of  a  ranch 
you  ever  saw,  iron  gates  to  it  like  a  storage  ware- 
house, and  behind  that  trees  and  bushes  and 
lawn,  like  a  slice  out  of  Central  Park.  Pinckney 
wakes  up  the  lodge-keeper  and  after  he  lets  down 
the  bars  we  pikes  around  to  the  stable.  It  looked 
more  like  an  Episcopal  church  than  a  stable,  and 
we  didn't  find  any  horses  inside,  anyway,  only 
seven  different  kinds  of  gasoline  carts.  The 
stable-hands  all  seemed  to  know  Pinckney  and  to  be 
proud  of  it,  but  they  shied  some  at  Rajah  and  me. 

"  This  is  part  of  a  little  affair  I'm  managing  for 
Mrs.  Toynbee,"  says  Pinckney.  "  Professor  Mc- 
Cabe  and  Rajah  will  stay  here  for  a  day  or  two, 
strictly  in  cog.,  you  know." 

What  Pinckney  says  seemed  to  be  rules  and 
regulations  there,  so  Rajah  and  I  got  the  glad 
hand  after  that.  And  for  a  stable  visit  it  was  the 
best  that  ever  happened.  I've  stopped  at  lots 
of  two-dollar  houses  that  would  have  looked  like 
Bowery  lodgings  alongside  of  that  stable.  And 
one  of  the  boys  thought  he  could  handle  the  mitts 
some.  Yes,  that  in  cog.  business  wasn't  so  worse, 
at  fifty  per. 

All  this  time  Pinckney  was  as  busy  as  the  man 
at  the  ticket  window,  only  droppin'  in  once  or 


SHORTY  McCABE  133 

twice  after  dark  to  see  if  Rajah  was  stayin'  good. 
The  show  was  being  knocked  into  shape  and 
Pinckney  was  master  of  ceremonies.  I  knew  he 
was  goin'  to  work  Rajah  in  somehow;  but  he 
didn't  have  any  time  to  put  me  next  and  I  never 
tumbled  until  he'd  sprung  the  trick. 

About  the  third  day  things  began  to  hum  around 
the  Toynbee  place.  A  gang  of  tentmen  came 
with  a  round  top  and  put  it  up.  They  strung  a 
lot  of  side-show  banners  too,  and  built  lemonade- 
stands  in  the  shrubbery.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  the 
Johnnie  boys  in  hot  clothes  strollin'  around  you'd 
thought  a  real  one-ring  wagon-show  had  struck 
town.  But  say,  that  bunch  of  clowns  and  bum 
bareback  riders  had  papas  who  could  have  given 
'em  a  Forepaugh  outfit  every  birthday. 

Early  next  morning  I  got  the  tip  from  Pinckney 
to  sneak  Rajah  out  of  the  stable  and  over  into  the 
dressin'-tent.  The  way  that  old  chap's  eyes 
glistened  when  he  saw  the  banners  and  things  was 
a  wonder.  He  sure  did  know  a  heap,  that  Rajah. 
He  was  as  excited  and  anxious  as  a  new  chorus 
girl  at  a  fall  opening;  but  when  I  gave  him  the 
word  he  held  himself  in. 

Just  before  the  grand  entry  I  got  a  peek  at  the 
house,  and  it  was  a  swell  mob:  same  folks  that 
you'll  see  at  the  Horse  Show,  only  there  wasn't 
no  dollar-a-head  push  to  rubber  at  'em,  as  they 


i34  SHORTY  McCABE 

wa'n't  on  exhibition.  They  was  just  out  for  fun, 
and  I  guess  they  know  how  to  have  it,  seem' 
that's  their  steady  job. 

Number  four  on  the  programme  was  put  down 
as:  "Mr.  Lionel  Pinckney  Ogden  Bruce,  with 
his  wonderfully  life-like  elephant  Rajah."  I 
heard  the  barker  givin'  his  song  an'  dance  about 
the  act,  and  he  got  a  great  hand.  Then  Pinckney 
goes  on  and  the  crowd  howls. 

You  see,  he'd  had  a  loose  canvas  suit,  like 
pajamas,  made  for  Rajah,  and  stuffed  out  with 
straw.  It  was  painted  to  look  something  like 
elephant  hide,  but  some  of  the  straw  had  been 
left  sticking  through  the  seams.  With  Rajah 
sewed  inside  of  this,  he  looked  like  a  rank  imitation 
of  himself. 

"Fake,  fake!"  they  yells  at  7em  as  they  showed 
up.  "Who's  playing  the  hind  legs,  Lionel?" 
and  a  lot  of  things  like  that.  They  threw  peanuts 
and  apples  at  Rajah,  and  generally  enjoyed 
themselves. 

Then  all  of  a  sudden  Pinckney  pulls  the  pucker- 
ing string,  yanks  off  the  padding,  and  out  walks 
old  Rajah  as  chipper  as  Billy  Jerome.  Fetch  'em? 
Well,  say !  You've  seen  a  gang  of  school-kids  when 
the  sleight-of-hand  man  makes  a  pass  over  the 
egg  in  the  hat  and  pulls  out  a  live  rabbit?  These 
folks  acted  the  same  way.  They  howled,  they 


SHORTY  McCABE  135 

hee-hawed,  they  jumped  up  and  down  on  the 
seats. 

They'd  been  lookin'  for  the  same  old  elephant 
with  two  men  inside,  the  good  old  chestnut  that 
they'd  been  tryin'  to  laugh  over  for  years,  and 
when  this  philopena  was  sprung  on  'em  they 
were  as  tickled  as  a  baby  with  a  jack-in-the-box. 
It  wouldn't  have  got  more'n  one  laugh  out  of  a 
crowd  of  everyday  folks,  but  that  swell  mob  just 
went  wild  over  it.  It  was  a  new  stunt,  done 
special  for  them  by  one  of  their  own  crowd. 

Was  Pinckney  it?  Why,  he  was  the  whole 
show!  They  kept  him  and  Rajah  in  the  ring  for 
half  an  hour,  and  they  let  loose  every  time  Rajah 
lifted  his  trunk  or  flapped  his  ears.  When  he 
got  'em  quiet  Pinckney  made  a  speech.  He  said 
he  was  happy  to  say  that  the  grand  door  prize,  as 
announced  on  the  hand-bills,  had  been  drawn  by 
Mrs.  Jeremiah  Toynbee,  and  that  Rajah  was  the 
prize.  Would  she  take  it  with  her,  or  have  it  sent? 

You've  heard  of  Mrs.  Jerry.  She's  a  real  sport, 
she  is.  She's  the  one  that  stirred  up  all  that  fuss 
by  takin'  her  tame  panther  down  to  Bailey's 
Beach  with  her.  And  Mrs.  Jerry  wasn't  goin' 
back  on  her  reputation  or  missin'  any  two-page 
ads.  in  the  papers. 

"You  may  send  him,  please,"  says  Mrs.  Jerry. 

Maybe  they  thought  that  was  all  a  part  of 


136  SHORTY  McCABE 

Pinckney's  fake.  They  didn't  know  how  hard 
we'd  tried  to  unload  Rajah.  We  didn't  do  any 
lingerin'  around.  While  the  show  was  goin'  on 
we  sneaks  out  of  the  back  of  the  tent  with  Rajah 
and  across  to  the  stable.  The  rest  was  easy.  He'd 
got  so  used  to  seem'  me  there  that  I  reckon  he'd 
sized  it  up  for  my  regular  hang-out,  so  when  we 
ties  him  up  fast  and  slides  out  easy,  one  at  a  time, 
he  never  mistrusts. 

"Professor,"  says  Pinckney,  "it  seems  to  me 
that  this  is  an  excellent  opportunity  for  us  to  go 
away." 

"It's  all  of  that,"  says  I,  "and  let's  make  it  a 
quick  shift." 

We  did.  Goggles  shook  us  up  some  on  the  way 
down,  but  we  hit  Broadway  in  time  for  breakfast. 


CHAPTER  VI 

You  didn't  happen  to  see  Pinckney  at  the  last 
Horse  Show,  did  you?  Well,  you'd  never  known 
him  for  the  same  ambulance  fare  that  dropped 
into  the  Studio  that  day.  He's  been  on  the  'rock 
for  two  months  now,  and  his  nerves  are  as  steady 
as  a  truck  horse.  There's  more  meat  on  him, 
too,  than  there  was.  I  don't  have  to  have  a  dust- 
pan ready,  in  case  I  should  jolt  him  one. 

But  say,  next  tune  any  two-by-four  chappy 
floats  in  here  for  a  private  course,  I  gets  plans  and 
specifications  before  I  takes  him  on.  No  more 
Rajah  business  in  mine.  See? 

There's  another  thing,  too.  I'm  thinkin'  of 
hirin'  a  husky  boy  with  a  <club  to  do  the  turnkey 
act  for  me.  Or  maybe  I  could  get  out  an  injunc- 
tion against  myself  to  keep  me  from  leavin'  home. 
What  I  need  is  a  life  sentence  to  stay  in  little  old 
New  York.  It's  the  only  place  where  things 
happen  reg'lar  and  sensible.  If  you  see  rocks 
flyin'  round  in  the  air,  or  a  new  building  doin'  the 
hoochee-coochee  an'  sheddin'  its  cornices,  or  man- 
hole covers  poppin'  off,  you  know  just  what's  up— 
nothing  but  a  little  stick  dynamite  handled  care- 
less, or  some  mislaid  gas  touched  off  by  a  plumber. 

But  the  minute  I  lets  some  one  lead  me  across  a 


138  SHORTY  McCABE 

ferry,  or  beyond  the  Bronx,  the  event  card  is  on 
the  blink,  and  I'm  a  bunky-doodle  boy.  Long's  I 
don't  get  more'n  a  mile  from  Forty-Second-st., 
I'm  Professor  McCabe,  and  the  cops  pass  me  the 
time  of  day.  Outside  of  that  I'm  a  stray,  and 
anyone  that  gets  the  fit  ties  a  can  to  me. 

It  was  my  mix-up  with  that  Blenmont  aggre- 
gation that  stirs  me  up.  Pinckney  was  at  the 
bottom  of  this,  too.  Course,  I  can't  register  any 
kick;  for  when  it  comes  to  doing  the  hair-trigger 
friendship  act,  Pinckney's  the  real  skookum 
preferred.  But  this  was  once  when  he  slipped  me 
a  blank. 

Looked  like  bein'  fed  with  a  spoon,  too,  at  the 
start.  All  I  had  to  do  was  to  take  the  one-thirty- 
six  out  to  Blenmont,  put  in  an  hour  with  Jarvis, 
catch  the  three-fifty  back,  and  charge  anything 
I  had  the  front  to  name.  What's  more,  I  kind  of 
cottoned  to  Jarvis,  from  the  drop  of  the  hat. 

He  was  waitin'  at  the  station  for  me,  with  a 
high-wheeled  cart,  and  a  couple  of  gingery  circus 
horses  hitched  one  in  front  of  the  other  like  two 
links  of  wienerwurst.  They  were  tryin'  to  play 
leap-frog  as  the  train  comes  in;  but  it  didn't 
seem  to  worry  Jarvis  any  more'n  if  he  was  drivin' 
a  pair  of  mail-wagon  plugs. 

One  of  those  big  pink-and-white  chaps,  Jarvis 
was,  with  nice  blue  eyes  and  ashes-of-roses  hair. 


SHORTY  McCABE  139 

There  was  a  lot  of  him,  and  it  was  well  placed.  He 
had  sort  of  a  soothing,  easy  way  of  talking,  too, 
like  a  church  organ  with  the  soft  pedal  on. 

Me  and  Jarvis  got  acquainted  right  away.  He 
said  he  didn't  care  much  about  the  physical- 
culture  game — didn't  exactly  need  it,  and  he'd 
been  through  all  that  before,  anyway — but,  mother 
and  sister  wanted  him  to  take  it  up  again,  and 
Pinckney'd  told  what  a  crackerjack  I  was;  so 
he  thought  he  might  as  well  go  in  for  it.  He  said 
he'd  had  a  little  hole  fixed  up  where  one  could 
do  that  sort  of  thing,  y'know,  and  he  hoped  I 
wouldn't  find  it  such  a  beastly  bore,  after  all. 

Oh,  he  was  a  gent,  Mr.  Jarvis.  But  what  got 
me  was  the  careless  way  he  juggled  the  reins  over 
those  two  bob-tailed  nags  that  was  doin'  a  rag- 
time runaway,  and  him  usin'  only  three  ringers, 
and  touchin'  'em  up  with  the  whip.  It  was  his 
lucky  day,  though,  and  we  got  there  without  an 
ambulance. 

It  was  somethin'  of  a  place  to  get  to,  yes — about 
a  hundred  and  'steen  rooms  and  bath,  I  should  say, 
with  a  back  yard  that  must  have  slopped  over  into 
Connecticut  some.  That's  what  you  get  by  havin' 
a  grandpop  who  put  his  thumb-print  on  every 
dollar  that  came  his  way. 

I  guess  Jarvis  was  used  to  livin'  in  a  place  like 
that,  though.  He  didn't  stop  to  tell  what  any- 


140  SHORTY  McCABE 

thing  cost,  or  show  off  any  of  the  bric-a-brac.  He 
just  led  the  way  through  seven  or  eight  parlors 
and  palm-rooms,  until  we  fetched  up  in  the  hole 
he'd  fixed  up  to  exercise  in.  It  was  about  three 
times  as  big  as  the  Studio  here,  and  if  there  was 
anything  missing  from  the  outfit  I  couldn't  have 
told  what  it  was — flyin'-rings,  bars,  rowin'- 
machine,  punchin'-bags,  dumb-bells — say!  with 
a  secretary  and  a  few  wall  mottos,  there  was  the 
makin's  of  a  Y.  M.  C.  A.  branch  right  on  the 
ground.  Then  there  was  dressin'-rooms,  a  shower 
bath,  and  a  tiled  plunge  tank  like  they  have  in 
these  Turkish  places. 

"Lucky  you  don't  go  in  strong  for  exercise," 
says  I.  "  If  you  did,  I  s'pose  you'd  fix  up  Madison 
Square  Garden?" 

"That  architect  was  an  ass,"  says  Jarvis;  "but 
mother  told  him  to  go  ahead.  Fancy  he  thought 
I  was  a  Sandow,  you  know." 

Well,  we  gets  into  our  gym.  clothes,  picks  out  a 
set  of  kid  pillows,  and  had  just  stepped  out  on  the 
rubber  for  a  little  warmin'  up,  when  in  sails  a  fluff 
delegation.  There  was  a  fat  old  one,  that  looked 
as  though  she  might  be  mother;  a  slim  baby-eyed 
one,  that  any  piker  would  have  played  for  sister; 
and  another,  that  I  couldn't  place  at  all.  She 
wasn't  a  Fifth-ave.  girl — you  could  tell  that  by  the 
way  she  wore  her  hair  bunched  down  on  the  nape 


Mother,  sister,  $n4*Lady 


SHORTY  McCABE  141 

of  her  neck — but  it  was  a  cinch  she  wasn't  any  poor 
relation. 

"Lost  their  way  goin'  to  the  matine*e,  eh?" 
says  I. 

Jarvis,  he  gets  pink  clear  down  to  his  collar- 
bone. "I  beg  pardon,  professor,"  says  he.  "It's 
only  mother  and  the  girls.  I'll  send  them  off." 

"That's  right;  shoo  'em,"  says  I. 

But  mother  wouldn't  shoo  any  more'n  a  trolley- 
car.  "Now,  don't  be  silly  about  it,  Jarvis,  dear," 
says  she.  "  You  know  how  Lady  Evelyn  dotes  on 
athletics,  and  how  your  sister  and  I  do,  too.  So 
we're  just  going  to  stay  and  watch  you." 

"Oh,  come,  mother,"  says  Jarvis;  "it  isn't  just 
the  thing,  you  know." 

"Ask    Lady    Evelyn,"    says    mother.     "Why, 

's  one  of  the  patronesses  of  the  Oldwich  Cricket 

ub,  and  pours  tea  for  the  young  men  at  their 
games.  Now,  go  ahead,  Jarvis;  there's  a  dear." 

He  looks  at  me  for  a  tip,  and  that  gives  him  a 
hunch.  "But  the  professor — "  says  he. 

"Oh,  Professor  McCabe  doesn't  mind  us  a  bit; 
do  you  now,  professor?"  says  sister,  buttin'  in, 
real  coy  and  giddy. 

"I  can  stand  it  if  you  can,"  says  I,  and  she  tips 
me  a  goo-goo  smile  that  was  all  to  the  candied 
violets. 

"There!"  says  the  mother.     "Now  go  right  on 


i42  SHORTY  McCABE 

as  though  we  were  not  here  at  all.     But  remember 
not  to  be  too  rough,  Jarvis,  dear/' 

I  grins  at  that,  and  Jarvis  dear  looks  foolisher 
than  ever.  But  the  ladies  had  settled  themselves 
in^front  seats,  and  there  didn't  seem  to  be  anything 
to  do  but  to  play  marbles  or  quit  an'  go  home. 
And  say,  I  don't  know  which  looked  more  like  a 
stage-hand  caught  in  front  of  the  drop,  Jarvis  or 
me.  We  went  through  some  kind  of  motions, 
though,  until  I  begins  to  get  over  bein'  rattled. 
Then  I  tries  to  brace  him  up. 

"Little  faster  with  that  right  counter  there," 
says  I.  "And  block  more  with  your  elbow.  Ah, 
you're  wide  open — see?"  and  I  taps  him  once  or 
twice.  "Now  look  out  for  this  left  lead  to  the 
face.  Come,  use  that  right  a  little.  'Tain't  in  a 
sling,  is  it?  Foot-work,  now.  You  side-step  like 
a  truck-horse.  There,  that's  the  article.  Now 
let  'em  come — block,  counter,  guard!" 

You  see,  I  was  doin'  my  best  to  work  up  a  little 
excitement  and  get  Jarvis  to  forget  the  audience; 
but  it  wasn't  much  use.  About  all  we  did  was  to 
walk  around  and  pat  each  other  like  a  pair  of 
kittens.  There'd  been  as  much  exercise  in  passin' 
the  plate  at  church. 

Mother  thought  it  was  lovely,  though,  and 
sister  had  that  gushy  look  in  her  eyes  that  her 
kind  wears  after  they've  been  to  see  Maude  Adams. 


SHORTY  McCABE  143 

Lady  Evelyn,  though,  didn't  seem  to  be  struck 
silly  by  our  performance.  She  acted  as  though 
someone  had  been  tryin'  to  sell  her  a  gold  brick. 
Her  nose  was  up  in  the  air,  and  she'd  turned  a 
shoulder  to  us,  like  she  was  wonderin'  how  long 
it  would  be  before  the  next  act  was  put  on. 
Couldn't  blame  her,  either.  That  was  the 
weakest  imitation  of  a  sparrin'  bout  I  ever  stood 
up  in. 

But  there  was  no  stirrin'  Jarvis.  He'd  got 
stage-fright,  or  cold  feet,  or  something  of  the  kind. 
It  wa'n't  that  he  didn't  know  how,  for  he  had  all 
the  tags  of  a  good  amateur  about  his  moves;  but 
somehow  he'd  been  queered.  So,  as  soon  as  we 
can,  we  quits.  Then  sister  gets  her  chance  to 
gush.  She  rushes  to  the  front  and  turns  the  baby 
stare  on  me  like  I  was  all  the  goods. 

"Oh,  it  was  just  too  sweet  for  anything!"  says 
she.  "Do  you  know,  professor,  I've  always 
wanted  to  see  a  real  boxing-match;  but  Jarvis 
would  never  let  me  before.  He's  told  me  horrid 
stories  about  how  brutal  they  were.  Now  I 
know  they're  nothing  of  the  sort.  I  shall  come 
every  time  you  and  Jarvis  have  one,  and  so  will 
Lady  Evelyn.  You  didn't  think  it  was  brutal, 
did  you,  Evelyn?" 

Lady  Evelyn  humped  her  eyebrows  and  gave  me 
one  look.  "No,"  says  she,  "I  shouldn't  call  it 


i44  SHORTY  McCABE 

brutal,  exactly/'  and  then  she  swallows  a  polite, 
society  snicker  in  a  way  that  made  me  mad  from 
the  ground  up.  Jarvis  didn't  lose  any  of  that, 
either.  I  got  a  glimpse  of  him  turnin'  automobile 
red,  and  tryin'  to  choke  himself  with  his  tongue. 

"It's  something  like  the  wand  drill  we  used  to 
do  at  college,"  says  sister.  "Don't  you  like  the 
wand  drill,  professor?" 

"When  it  ain't  done  too  rough,  I'm  dead  stuck 
on  it,"  says  I. 

"I  just  knew  you  didn't  like  rough  games,"  says 
she.  "You  don't  look  as  though  you  would,  you 
know." 

"That's  right,"  say  I. 

"  Jarvis  says  that  once  you  knocked  out  three 
men  in  one  evening;  but  I'm  sure  you  weren't  rude 
about  it,"  she  gurgles. 

"And  that's  no  pipe,  either,"  says  I.  "I 
wouldn't  be  rude  for  money." 

"What  is  a  knock-out,  anyway?"  says  she. 

"Why,"  says  I,  "it's  just  pushin'  a  feller  around 
the  platform  until  he's  too  dizzy  to  stand  up." 

"What  fun!"  says  sister. 

We  makes  a  break  for  the  dressin'-room  about 
then,  and  the  delegation  clears  out.  On  the  way 
back  to  the  station  Jarvis  apologizes  seven  different 
ways,  and  ends  up  by  givin'  me  the  cue  to  the 
whole  game. 


SHORTY  McCABE  145 

Seems  that  mother's  steady  job  in  life  was  to 
get  him  married  off  to  some  one  that  suited  her 
for  a  daughter-in-law.  She'd  been  at  it  for  five 
or  six  years;  but  Jarvis  had  always  blocked  her 
moves,  until  Lady  Evelyn  shows  up.  I  guessed 
that  he'd  picked  her  out  himself,  and  was  gettin' 
along  fine,  when  mother  begins  to  mix  in  and 
arrange  things.  Evelyn  shies  at  that,  and  com- 
mences to  hand  Jarvis  the  frapped  smile.  This 
little  visit  to  the  sparrin'  exhibition  the  old  lady 
had  planned  for  Evelyn's  special  benefit. 

"But  hang  it  all!"  says  Jarvis,  "I  couldn't  stand 
up  there  and  show  off,  like  a  Sunday-school  boy 
spouting  a  piece.  Made  me  feel  like  a  silly  ass, 
you  know." 

"You  looked  the  part,"  says  I.  "About  one 
more  of  those  stunts,  and  Lady  Evelyn'll  want  to 
adopt  the  two  of  us." 

"No  more,"  says  he.  "She  must  think  I'm  a 
milksop.  Why,  she's  got  brothers  that  are 
officers  in  the  British  army,  fellows  who  get 
themselves  shot,  and  win  medals,  and  all  that 
sort  of  thing." 

Well,  I  was  sorry  for  Jarvis;  for  the  girl  was  a 
good  looker,  all  right,  and  they'd  have  mated  up 
fine.  But  I'm  no  schatchen.  Physical  culture's 
my  game,  an'  I  ain't  takin'  on  no  marriage  bureau 

as  a  side  line.    So  we  shook  hands  and  called  it  a 
10 


146  SHORTY  McCABE 

canceled  contract.  Then  Jarvis  jerks  those  circus 
horses  out  of  a  bow-knot  and  rounds  the  corner  on 
one  wheel,  while  I  climbs  aboard  the  choo-choo 
cars  and  gets  back  near  Broadway. 

I  wasn't  lookin'  to  run  across  Jarvis  again, 
seem'  as  how  me  and  him  has  our  own  particular 
sets;  but  'twasn't  more'n  three  days  before  he 
shows  up  at  the  Studio.  He  was  lookin'  down 
an'  out,  too. 

"  Dropped  in  for  a  real  rough  game  of  pussy- 
wants-a-corner,"  says  I,  "or  shall  we  make  it 
ring-around-the-rosy  ? ' ' 

"I  say,  now,  Shorty,"  says  he,  "if  you'd  had  it 
rubbed  in  as  hard  as  I  have,  you'd  let  up." 

"Heard  from  Lady  Evelyn?"  says  I. 

He  kind  of  groaned  and  fell  into  a  chair.  "  I 
tried  to  tell  her  about  it,"  says  he;  "but  she 
wouldn't  listen  to  a  word.  She  only  asked  if  you 
were  a  professor  of  dancing." 

"Hully  chee!"  says  I.  "Say,  you  tell  her  from 
me  that  I'm  a  cloak-model,  an'  proud  of  it.  Dan- 
cin' -master,  eh?  Do  you  stand  for  a  josh  like 
that?" 

"Hang  me  if  I  do!"  says  he,  jumpin'  up  and 
measurin'  off  three-foot  steps  across  the  floor. 
"The  Lady  Evelyn's  going  back  to  England  in  a 
few  days,  but  before  she  leaves  I  want  her  to  have 
a  chance  to — well,  to  see  that  I'm  not  the  sort 


SHORTY  McCABE  147 

she  thinks  I  am.  And  I  want  you  to  help  me  out, 
professor." 

"Ah,  say,  you  got  the  wrong  transfer,"  says  I. 
"I'm  no  thin'  but  a  dub  at  anything  like  that. 
What  you  want  is  to  get  Clyde  Fitch  to  build  you 
a  nice  little  one-act  scene  where  you  can  play 
leadin'  gent  to  her  leadin'  lady." 

"You're  mistaken,  Shorty,"  says  he.  "I'm  not 
putting  up  a  game.  No  heroics  for  me.  I'm  just 
a  plain,  ordinary  chump,  and  willing  to  let  it  go 
at  that.  But  I'm  no  softy,  and  she's  got  to  know 
it.  There's  another  thing:  mother  and  sister 
have  carried  this  athletic  nonsense  about  far 
enough.  They'd  like  to  exhibit  me  to  all  the 
fool  women  they  know,  as  a  kind  of  modern 
Hercules,  and  I'm  sick  of  it.  Now,  I've  got  a 
plan  that  ought  to  cure  'em  of  that." 

For  Jarvis,  it  wa'n't  so  slow.  Say,  he  ain't  half 
so  much  asleep  as  he  looks.  His  proposition  is  to 
spring  the  real  thing  on  'em,  a  five-round  go  for 
keeps,  with  ring- weight  gloves,  and  all  the  trim- 
min's. 

"They've  been  bothering  me  for  more,"  says  he. 
"I  haven't  heard  anything  else  since  you  were 
there.  And  Lady  Evelyn's  been  putting  them  up 
to  it,  I'll  bet  a  hat.  What  do  you  say,  professor? 
Wouldn't  you  give  it  to  them?" 

"I  sure  would,"  says  I.     "It's  comin'  to  'em. 


148  SHORTY  McCABE 

And  I  know  of  two  likely  Red  Hook  boys  that's 
just  achin'  to  get  at  each  other  in  the  ring  for  a 
fifty-dollar  purse." 

"No,  no,"  says  Jarvis.  "I  mean  to  be  in  this 
myself.  It's — it's  necessary,  you  know." 

"Oh!"  says  I,  looking  him  over  kind  of  curious. 
"  But  see  here,  do  you  think  you'd  be  good  for  five 
rounds?" 

"I'm  not  quite  in  condition  now,"  says  he;  but 
there  was  a  time — 

You  know.  You've  seen  these  college-trained 
boxers,  that  think  they're  hittin'  real  hard  when 
their  punch  wouldn't  dent  a  cheese-pie. 

"We'd  have  to  fake  it  some,"  says  I. 

"  Oh,  no,  that  wouldn't  do  at  all,"  says  Jarvis. 
"This  must  be  a  genuine  match.  I'll  put  up  ten 
to  one,  five  hundred  to  fifty;  and  if  I  stay  the  five 
rounds  I  get  the  fifty." 

"  Whe-e-ew ! "  says  I.  "  It'd  be  like  takin'  candy 
from  a  kid.  I  couldn't  do  it." 

Jarvis,  he  kind  of  colored  up  at  that,  but  he 
didn't  go  off  his  nut.  "I  beg  pardon,"  says  he; 
"but  I  have  an  idea,  you  know,  that  it  wouldn't 
be  so  one-sided  as  you  think." 

Well  say,  I've  made  lots  of  easy  money  off'n 
ideas  just  like  that,  and  when  it  was  put  up  to  me 
as  a  personal  favor  to  do  it,  I  couldn't  renig.  It 
did  go  against  the  grain  to  play  myself  for  a  long- 


SHORTY  McCABE  149 

shot,  though;  but  Jarvis  wouldn't  listen  to  any- 
thing else,  claimin'  his  weight  and  reach  made  it 
an  even  thing.  So  I  takes  him  on,  an'  we  bills  the 
go  for  the  next  afternoon. 

"  I  may  have  to  bring  up  Swifty  Joe  for  a  bottle- 
holder,"  says  I,  "an'  Swifty  ain't  just  what  you'd 
call  parlor  broke." 

"All  the  better  for  that,"  says  Jarvis.  "And 
I'd  be  much  obliged  if  you'd  find  another  like  him, 
for  my  corner." 

Course,  there's  only  one  Swifty.  He's  got  a 
bent-in  nose,  an'  a  lop  ear,  an'  a  jaw  like  a  hippo. 
He's  won  more  bouts  by  scarin'  his  man  stiff  than 
any  plug  in  the  business.  He'd  been  a  champ 
long  ago,  if  it  wa'n't  for  a  chunk  of  yellow  in  him 
as  big  as  a  grape  fruit.  No,  I  couldn't  match  up 
Swifty.  I  done  the  next  best  thing,  though;  I 
sent  for  Gorilla  Quigley,  and  gets  Mike  Slattery 
to  hold  the  watch  on  us. 

Mike  gets  the  hint  that  this  was  a  swell  joint 
we  was  goin'  to;  so  he  shows  up  in  South  Brook- 
lyn evenin'  dress — plug  hat,  striped  shirt,  and 
sack  coat.  I  makes  him  chuck  the  linen  for  a 
sweater;  but  I  couldn't  separate  him  from  the 
shiny  top  piece.  The  Gorilla  always  wears  a 
swimmin'  jersey  with  a  celluloid  dicky;  so  he 
passes  muster. 

Anyways,  when  old  Knee  Pants,  the  Blenmont 


150  SHORTY  McCABE 

butler,  sees  us  lined  up  at  the  front  entrance,  we 
had  him  pop-eyed.  He  was  goin'  to  ring  up  the 
police  reserves,  when  Mr.  Jarvis  comes  out  and 
passes  us  in. 

"They're  a  group  of  forty-nine  per  cents.,"  says 
I;  "but  you  said  you  wanted  that  kind." 

"It's  all  right,"  says  he.  "I've  explained  to 
the  ladies  that  a  few  of  my  friends  interested  in 
physical  culture  were  coming  up  to-day,  and  that 
perhaps  they'd  better  stay  out;  but  they'll  be 
there  just  the  same." 

He'd  got  'em  right,  too.  Just  as  we'd  fixed  the 
ropes,  and  got  out  the  pails  and  towels,  in  they 
floats;  mother  beamin'  away  like  a  head-light, 
sister  all  fixed  ready  to  blow  bubbles,  and  the  Lady 
Evelyn  with  her  nose  stickin'  up  in  the  air. 

"Professor,  will  you  do  the  honors?"  says 
Jarvis  to  me. 

And  I  did  'em.  "Ladies,"  says  I,  "lemme  put 
you  next  to  some  sure-fire  talent.  This  gent  with 
the  ingrowin'  Roman  nose-piece  is  me  assistant 
Swifty  Joe  Gallagher.  He's  just  as  han'some  as 
he  looks." 

"Aw,  cut  it  out!"  says  Swifty. 

"  Back  under  the  sink  with  the  rest  of  the  pipes." 
says  I,  out  of  the  side  of  my  mouth.  Then  I  does 
another  duck.  "And  this  here  gooseb'ry  blond 
in  the  Alice-blue  jersey,  is  Mr.  Gorilla  Quigley,that 


SHORTY  McCABE  151 

put  Gans  out  once — all  but.  The  other  gent  you 
may  have  met  before,  seein'  as  he's  from  one  of 
the  first  families  of  Brooklyn — lives  under  the 
bridge.  His  name's  Mike  Slattery.  Now,  if 
you'll  excuse  us,  we'll  get  busy." 

As  I  takes  my  corner,  I  could  see  mother  begin- 
nin'  to  look  worried;  but  sister  opens  a  box  of 
chocolate  creams  and  prepares  to  have  the  time 
of  her  life.  Lady  Evelyn  springs  her  lorgnette 
and  sizes  us  up  like  we  was  a  bunch  of  Buffalo 
Bill  Indians  just  off  the  reservation. 

I'd  forgot  to  tip  off  Slattery  that  there  wasn't 
any  postprandials  expected  of  him;  so  the  first 
thing  I  knew  he  was  makin'  his  little  ring  speech, 
just  the  same's  if  he  was  announcin'  events  at  the 
Never  Die  Athletic  club. 

"Now  gents — and  ladies,"  says  he,  "this  is  a 
five-round  go  for  a  stay,  between  Professor  Shorty 
McCabe,  ex-light-weight  champeen  of  the  world, 
and  another  gent  what  goes  on  the  cards  as  an 
unknown.  It's  catch  weights,  an'  the  winner  pulls 
down  the  whole  basket  of  greens.  There  ain't 
goin'  to  be  no  hittin'  after  the  clinch,  and  if  there's 
any  fouls,  you  leave  it  to  me.  Don't  come  buttin' 
in.  It's  been  put  up  to  me  to  keep  time  an' 
referee  this  mix-up,  and  I  don't  want  no  help. 
You  bottle-holders  stay  in  your  corners  till  the 
count's  over.  Now  are  you  ready?  Then  go!" 


152  SHORTY  McCABE 

There  was  a  squeal  or  two  when  we  sheds  our 
bath-robes  and  steps  to  the  middle,  and  I  guesses 
that  the  ladies  was  gettin'  their  first  view  of  ring 
clothes.  But  I  wasn't  lookin'  anywhere  but  at 
Jarvis.  And  say,  he  would  have  made  a  hit  any- 
where. He  had  just  paddin'  enough  to  round  him 
out  well,  and  not  so  much  as  to  make  him  look 
ladyfied.  Course,  he  was  a  good  many  pounds 
over- weight  for  the  job  he'd  tackled,  but  he'd  have 
looked  mighty  well  on  a  poster.  Honest,  it  seemed 
a  shame  to  have  to  muss  him. 

Jarvis  wa'n't  there  to  stand  in  the  lime-light, 
though.  He  went  right  to  work  as  though  he 
meant  business.  I'd  kind  of  figured  on  let  tin' 
him  have  his  own  way  for  a  couple  of  rounds, 
takin'  it  easy,  an'  jockeyin'  him  into  making  a 
showin';  but  the  first  thing  I  knows  he  lands  a 
right  swing  that  near  lifts  me  off  my  feet,  an' 
Swifty  sings  out  to  me  to  stop  my  kiddin'. 

"Beg  pardon,"  says  Jarvis;  "but  I'm  after  that 
fifty." 

"If  I'd  had  a  putty  jaw,  you'd  got  it  then," 
says  I.  "  Here's  the  twin  to  that." 

But  my  swipe  didn't  reach  him  by  an  inch,  and 
the  best  I  could  do  was  to  swap  half -arm  jolts 
until  I'd  got  steadied  down  again.  Well  say,  I 
wasn't  more'n  an  hour  findin'  out  that  I  couldn't 
monkey  much  with  Jarvis.  He  knew  how  to  let 


SHORTY  McCABE  153 

his  weight  follow  the  glove,  and  he  blocked  as 
pretty  as  if  he  was  punchin'  the  bag. 

"You  didn't  learn  that  in  no  college,"  says  I, 
fiddlin'  for  a  place  to  plant  my  left. 

"You're  quite  right,"  says  he,  and  bores  in  like 
a  snow-plough. 

We  steamed  up  a  little  in  the  second;  but  it 
was  an  even  break  at  that,  barrin'  the  fact  that  I 
played  more  for  the  wind,  and  had  Jarvis  breathin' 
fast  when  Slattery  called  quits.  Gorilla  Quigley 
was  onto  his  job,  though,  an'  he  gives  him  good 
advice  while  he  was  wavin'  the  towel.  I  could 
hear  him  coachin'  Jarvis  to  save  his  breath  and 
make  me  do  the  rushin'. 

"Don't  waste  no  time  on  that  cast-iron  mug  of 
his,"  says  Gorilla.  "All  you  gotter  do  is  cover  up 
an'  stay  the  limit." 

But  that  wa'n't  Jarvis's  program.  He  begins 
like  a  bridge  car-rusher  makin'  for  a  seat,  and  he 
had  me  back  into  my  corner  in  no  time  at  all.  We 
mixed  it  then,  mixed  it  good  and  plenty.  Jarvis 
wa'n't  handin'  out  any  love-taps,  either;  and  I 
didn't  have  beef  enough  to  stop  a  hundred-an'- 
eighty  pound  swing  without  feelin'  the  jar.  I  was 
dizzy  from  'em  all  right;  but  I  jumps  in  close  an' 
pounds  away  on  his  ribs  until  he  gives  ground. 
Then  I  comes  the  Nelson  crouch,  and  rips  a  few 
cross-overs  in  where  they'd  do  the  most  good. 


i54  SHORTY  McCABE 

That  didn't  stop  him,  though.  Pretty  soon  he 
comes  in  for  more.  Say,  I  never  see  a  guy  that 
could  look  pleasanter  while  he  was  passin'  out  hot 
ones.  It  wasn't  a  fightin'  grin,  same  as  Terry 
wears;  it  was  just  a  calm,  steady,  business-like 
proposition,  one  of  the  kind  that  goes  with  a 
"Sorry  to  trouble  you,  but  I've  got  to  knock 
your  block  off."  Now,  I  can  grin,  too,  until  I 
makes  up  my  mind  that  it's  time  to  pull  the 
other  chap's  cork.  But  I  was  never  up  against 
any  of  this  polite  business  before.  It  wins  me, 
though.  Right  there  I  says  to  myself:  "Jarvis, 
if  you  can  keep  that  up  for  two  rounds  more, 
you're  welcome  to  win  out."  It  was  worth  the 
money. 

And  just  as  I  gets  this  notion  in  my  nut,  he 
cuts  loose  with  a  bunch  of  rapid-fire  jabs  that 
had  me  wonderin'  where  I'd  be  if  one  landed 
just  right.  I  ain't  got  it  mapped  out  yet  just 
how  it  happened;  for  about  then  the  ladies  let 
go  a  lot  of  squeals;  but  I  remembers  stoppin'  a 
facer  that  showed  me  pin-wheels,  an'  then  I  quits 
fancy  boxin'. 

We  was  roughin'  it  all  over  the  ring,  and  Swifty 
an'  the  Gorilla  was  yellin'  things,  an'  Slattery  was 
yellin'  back  at  them,  and  the  muss  was  as  pretty 
as  any  ten-dollar-a-head  crowd  ever  paid  to  see, 
when  all  of  a  sudden  Jarvis  misses  a  swing,  and  I 


SHORTY  McCABE  155 

throws  all  I  had  into  an  upper  cut.  It  connected 
with  his  chin  dimple  like  a  hammer  on  a  nut. 
The  next  thing  I  knows  Swifty  has  the  elbow-lock 
on  me  from  behind,  and  Mike  is  standin'  over 
Mr.  Jar  vis  makin'  the  count. 

Well,  there  wa'n't  any  cheerin'  and  shoutin'. 
I  didn't  have  to  shake  hands  with  any  crazy 
bunch,  or  be  toted  off  to  the  dressin'-room  on 
their  shoulders.  When  I  gets  so  I  can  look 
straight  I  sees  mother  keeled  over  in  her  chair, 
and  sister  fannin'  her  with  the  chocolate  box. 
And  say,  I  felt  like  a  lead  quarter.  Next  I  takes 
a  squint  at  Lady  Evelyn.  She  was  standin'  up 
as  stiff  as  a  tin  soldier  on  parade,  with  her  eyes 
snappin'  and  her  fingers  clinched. 

Just  one  of  them  looks  was  enough  for  me.  I 
gets  busy  with  a  pail,  and  goes  to  work  on  Jarvis. 
He  was  clean  out,  of  course,  but  restin'  as  easy 
as  a  baby.  We  was  bringin'  him  round  all  right, 
when  I  feels  a  push  that  shoves  me  to  one  side, 
and  in  rushes  Lady  Evelyn.  She  gets  one  arm 
under  his  neck  just  as  he  opens  his  eyes  with  that 
kind  of  a  "What's  the  matter  now?"  way  they 
has  of  comin'  back. 

Course,  it  don't  last  long,  that  wizzy  feelin' 
and  there  ain't  any  hurt  to  speak  of  afterward; 
but  I  reckon  Lady  Evelyn  don't  know  much 
about  knock-outs.  The  way  she  hugs  him  up 


156  SHORTY  McCABE 

you'd  thought  he'd  been  half  killed.  We  was  all 
lookin'  foolish  and  useless,  I  guess,  when  the  lady 
turns  to  me  and  snaps  out: 

"Brute!  I  hope  you're  satisfied !" 

Say,  it  wouldn't  have  been  worse  if  I'd  been 
caught  robbin'  a  poor  box.  "  Thank  you,  ma'am," 
says  I,  and  fades  into  the  background. 

"Go  away,  all  of  you!"  says  she. 

So  Swifty  and  the  other  two  comes  taggin' 
along  behind,  and  we  had  a  little  reunion  in  the 
dressin'-room. 

"On  the  dead,  now,"  says  Slattery,  "what  was 
the  foul?" 

"Who's  claimin'  foul?"  says  Swifty,  bristlin'. 

"Why  the  lady  gives  it  to  Shorty  straight," 
says  he. 

"Ah,  go  dream  about  it!"  says  Swifty.  "She 
don't  know  a  foul  from  a  body  wallop." 

"See  here,"  says  I,  "you  can  talk  all  that  over 
while  you're  hoofin'  it  back  to  the  station;  and 
you're  due  to  be  on  your  way  in  just  four  minutes 
by  the  clock;  so  chuck  it!" 

"I  ain't  heard  no  step-lively  call,"  says  Slattery. 
"Besides,  I  likes  the  place." 

"Well,  it  don't  like  you,"  says  I.  "Mr.  Jarvis 
and  me  have  had  enough  of  your  rough-house 
society  to  last  us  a  time  and  a  half.  Now  bunky- 
doodle!" 


SHORTY  McCABE  157 

They  was  a  sore-head  trio  for  fair,  after  that; 
but  when  I'd  paid  'em  off,  with  a  fiver  extra  for 
luck,  they  drops  out  of  a  window  onto  the  lawn 
and  pikes  off  like  a  squad  of  jail-breakers.  I 
was  some  easier  in  my  mind  then;  but  I  wa'n't 
joyful,  at  that. 

You  see,  Mr.  Jarvis  had  treated  me  so  white, 
and  he  was  such  a  nice  decent  chap,  that  I  was 
feelin'  mighty  cut  up  about  givin'  him  the  quick 
exit  right  before  the  girl  he  was  gone  on.  Sure, 
he'd  played  for  it;  but  I  could  see  I  shouldn't 
have  done  it.  Knock-outs  ain't  in  my  line  any 
more,  anyway;  but  to  spring  one  right  before 
women  folks,  and  in  a  swell  joint  like  Blenmont — 
say,  it  made  me  feel  like  a  last  year's  straw  hat 
on  the  first  day  of  June. 

"Shorty,"  says  I,  "you're  a  throw-back.  You 
better  quit  travelin'  with  real  gents,  and  commence 
eatin'  with  your  knife  again.  Here's  Mr.  Jarvis 
gets  you  to  help  him  out  in  a  little  society  affair,  and 
you  overdoes  it  so  bad  he  can't  square  himself  in 
a  hundred  years.  Back  to  the  junction  for  yours." 

Well,  I  was  that  grouchy  I  wouldn't  look  at 
myself  in  the  glass.  But  I  rubs  down  and  gets 
into  my  Kialto  wardrobe  that  I'd  brought  along 
in  a  suit-case.  Then  I  waits  for  Jarvis.  Oh,  I 
didn't  want  to  see  him,  but  it  was  up  to  me  to 
say  my  little  piece. 


158  SHORTY  McCABE 

It  was  near  an  hour  before  he  shows  up,  wearin' 
his  bathrobe,  an'  lookin'  as  gay  as  a  flower-shop 
window. 

"On  the  level,  now,"  says  I,  before  he  had  a 
show  to  make  any  play  at  me,  "  if  I'd  known  what 
a  pinhead  I  was,  I'd  stayed  in  the  cushion.  How 
bad  did  I  queer  you?" 

"Shorty,"  says  he,  shovin'  out  his  hand,  "you're 
a  brick." 

"An'  cracked  in  the  bakin',  eh?"  says  I. 

"But  you  don't  understand,"  says  he.  "She's 
mine,  Shorty!  The  Lady  Evelyn— she's  promised 
to  marry  me." 

"Serves  you  right,"  says  I,  as  we  shakes  hands. 
"But  how  does  she  allow  to  get  back  at  me?" 

"Oh,  she  knows  all  about  everything  now," 
says  Jarvis,  "and  she  wants  to  apologize." 

Say,  he  wasn't  stringin'  me  either.  Blow  me 
if  she  didn't.  And  sister?  "You're  horrid!" 
says  she.  "Perfectly  horrid.  So  there!"  Now 
can  you  beat  'em?  But,  as  I've  said  before,  when 
it  comes  to  figurin'  on  what  women  or  horses '11  do, 
I'm  a  four-flusher. 


CHAPTER  VII 

No,  I  ain't  goin'  out  to  Blenmont  these  days. 
Jarvis  does  his  exercisin'  here,  and  he  says  his 
mother's  havin'  a  ball  room  made  out  of  that 

gym- 

I've  been  stickin'  to  the  pavements,  like  I 
said  I  would.  Lookin'  cheerful,  too?  Why  not? 
If  you'd  been  a  minute  sooner  you'd  heard  me 
wobblin'  "Please,  Ma-ma,  nail  a  rose  on  me." 
But  say,  I'll  give  you  the  tale,  and  then  maybe 
you  can  write  your  own  ticket. 

You  see,  I'd  left  Swifty  Joe  runnin'  the  Physical 
Culture  Studio,  and  I  was  doin'  a  lap  up  the  sunny 
side  of  the  avenue,  just  to  give  my  holiday  regalia 
an  airing.  I  wasn't  thinkin'  a  stroke,  only  just 
breathin'  deep  and  feelin'  glad  I  was  right  there 
and  nowhere  else — you  know  how  the  avenue's 
likely  to  go  to  your  head  these  spring  days,  with  the 
carriage  folks  swampin'  the  traffic  squad,  and 
everybody  that  is  anybody  right  on  the  spot  or 
hurrying  to  get  there,  and  everyone  of  'em  as  fit 
and  finished  as  so  many  prize-winners  at  a  fair? 

Well,  I  wasn't  lookin'  for  anything  to  come  my 
way,  when  all  of  a  sudden  I  sees  a  goggle-capped 
tiger  throw  open  the  door  of  one  of  them  plate- 
glass  benzine  broughams  at  the  curb,  and  bend 


160  SHORTY  McCABE 

over  like  he  has  a  pain  under  his  vest.  I  was 
just  side-steppin'  to  make  room  for  some  uphol- 
stered old  battle-ax  that  I  supposed  owned  the 
rig,  when  I  feels  a  hand  on  my  elbow  and  hear 
some  one  say:  "Why,  Shorty  McCabe!  is  that 
you?" 

She  was  a  dream,  all  right — one  of  your  princess- 
cut  girls,  with  the  kind  of  clothes  on  that  would 
make  a  turkey-red  check-book  turn  pale.  But 
you  couldn't  fool  me,  even  if  she  had  put  a  Marcelle 
crimp  in  that  carroty  hair  of  hers,  and  washed  off 
the  freckles  and  biscuit  flour.  You  can't  change 
Irish-blue  eyes,  can  you?  And  when  you've  come 
to  know  a  voice  that's  got  a  range  from  maple- 
sugar  to  mixed  pickles,  you  don't  forget  it,  either. 
Know  her?  Say,  I  was  brought  up  next  door  to 
Sullivan's  boarding-house. 

"You  didn't  take  me  for  King  Eddie,  did  you, 
Miss  Sullivan?"  says  I. 

"I  might  by  the  clothes,"  says  she,  runnin'  her 
eyes  over  me,  "only  I  see  you've  got  him  beat  a 
mile.  But  why  the  Miss  Sullivan?" 

"  Because  I've  mislaid  your  weddin'-card,  and 
there's  been  other  things  on  my  mind  than  you 
since  our  last  reunion,"  says  I.  "But  I'm 
chawmed  to  meet  you  again,  rully,"  and  I  begins  to 
edge  off. 

"You  act  it,"  says  she.     "You  look  tickled  to 


SHORTY  McCABE  161 

death— almost.  But  I'm  pleased  enough  for  two. 
Anyway,  I'm  in  need  of  a  man  of  about  your  weight 
to  take  a  ride  with  me.  So  step  lively,  Shorty,  and 
don't  stand  there  scaring  trade  away  from  the 
silver  shop.  Come,  jump  in." 

"Not  me/'  says  I.  "I  never  butts  into  places 
where  there's  apt  to  be  a  hubby  to  ask  who's  who 
and  what's  what." 

"But  there  isn't  any  hubby  now,"  says  she. 

"North  Dakotaed  him?"  says  I. 

"No,"  says  she;  "I've  got  a  decree  good  in  any 
State.  His  friends  called  it  heart  failure.  I  can't 
because  I  used  to  settle  his  bar  bills.  You're  not 
shy  of  widows,  are  you?" 

Now  say,  there's  widows  and  widows — grass, 
baled  hay,  and  other  kinds — and  most  of  'em  I 
passes  up  on  general  principles,  along  with  chorus 
girls  and  lady  demonstrators;  but  somehow  I 
couldn't  seem  to  place  Sadie  Sullivan  in  that  line. 
Why,  her  mother  'n'  mine  used  to  borrow  cupfuls  of 
flour  of  each  other  over  the  back  fence,  and  it  was 
to  lick  a  feller  who'd  yelled  "brick- top"  after 
Sadie  that  started  me  to  takin'  my  first  boxin' 
lessons  in  Mike  Quigley's  barn. 

"I  ain't  much  used  to  traveling  in  one  of  these 
rubber-tired  show  windows,"  says  I;  "but  for 
the  sake  of  old  times  I'll  chance  it  once,"  and  with 

that  I  climbs  in;  the  tiger  puts  on  the  time-lock, 
11 


162  SHORTY  McCABE 

and  we  joins  the  procession.  "Your  car's  all  to 
the  giddy/'  I  remarks.  "  Didn't  it  leave  you  some 
short  of  breath  after  blowin'  yourself  to  this, 
Sadie?" 

"I  buy  it  by  the  month/'  says  she,  "including 
Jeems  and  Henri  in  front.  It  comes  higher  that 
way;  but  who  cares?" 

"Oh,"  says  I,  "he  left  a  barrel,  then?" 

"A  cellarful,"  says  Sadie. 

And  on  the  way  up  towards  the  park  I  gets  the 
scenario  of  the  acts  I'd  missed.  His  name  was 
Dipworthy — you've  seen  it  on  the  labels,  "Dip- 
worthy's  Drowsy  Drops,  Younsgters  Yearn  for 
'Em" — only  he  was  Dipworthy,  jr.,  and  knew 
as  little  about  the  "Drop"  business  as  only  sons 
usually  do  about  such  things.  Drops  wa'n't  his 
long  suit;  quarts  came  nearer  being  his  size. 

It  was  while  he  was  having  a  sober  spell  that  he 
married  Sadie ;  but  that  was  about  the  last  one  he 
ever  had.  She  stuck  to  him,  though;  let  him 
chase  her  with  guns  and  hammer  her  with  the 
furniture,  until  the  purple  monkeys  got  him  for 
good  and  all.  Then  she  cashed  in  the  "Drop" 
business,  settled  a  life-insurance  president's  salary 
on  her  mother,  bought  a  string  of  runnin'  ponies 
for  her  kid  brother,  and  then  hit  New  York,  with 
the  notion  that  here  was  where  you  could  get 
anything  you  had  the  price  to  pay  for. 


SHORTY  McCABE  163 

"But  I  made  a  wrong  guess,  Shorty,"  says 
she.  "It  isn't  all  in  having  the  money;  it's  in 
knowing  how  to  make  it  get  you  the  things  you 
want." 

"There's  plenty  would  like  to  give  you  lessons 
in  that,"  says  I. 

"You?"  says  she. 

"Say,  do  I  look  like  a  con  man?"  says  I. 

"There,  there,  Shorty!"  says  she.  "I  knew 
better,  only  I've  been  gold-bricked  so  much  lately 
that  I'd  almost  suspect  my  own  grandmother. 
I've  got  two  maids  who  steal  my  dresses  and  rings; 
a  lady  companion  who  nags  me  about  the  way  I 
talk,  and  who  hates  me  alive  because  I  can  afford 
to  hire  her ;  and  even  the  hotel  manager  makes  me 
pay  double  rates  because  I  look  too  young  for  a 
real  widow.  Do  you  know,  there  are  times  when 
I  almost  miss  the  late  Dippy.  Were  you  ever 
real  lonesome,  Shorty?" 

"Once  or  twice,"  says  I,  "when  I  was  far  from 
Broadway." 

"That's  nothing,"  says  she,  "to  being  lonesome 
on  Broadway.  And  I've  been  so  lonesome  in  a 
theatre  box,  with  two  thousand  people  in  plain 
sight,  that  I've  dropped  tears  down  on  the  trom- 
bone player  in  the  orchestra.  And  I  was  lonesome 
just  now,  wken  I  picked  you  up  back  there.  I  had 
been  into  that  big  jewelry  store,  buying  things  I 


i$4  SHORTY  McCABE 

didn't  want,  just  for  the  sake  of  having  some  one 
to  talk  to." 

"Ah,  say,"  says  I,  "cut  it  in  smaller  chunks, 
Sadie.  I'm  no  pelican." 

"You  don't  believe  me?"  says  she. 

"I  know  this  little  old  burg  too  well,"  says  I. 
"  Why,  with  a  hundred-dollar  bill  I  can  buy  more 
society  than  you  could  put  in  a  hall." 

"But  don't  you  see,  Shorty,"  says  she,  "that 
the  kind  you  can  buy  isn't  worth  having?  You 
don't  buy  yours,  do  you?  And  I  don't  want  to 
buy  mine.  I  want  to  swap  even.  I'm  not  a 
freak,  nor  a  foreigner,  nor  a  quarantine  suspect. 
Look  at  all  these  women  going  past — what's  the 
difference  between  us?  But  they're  not  lonesome, 
I'll  bet.  They  have  friends  and  dear  enemies  by 
the  hundreds,  while  I  haven't  either.  There  isn't 
a  single  home  on  this  whole  island  where  I  can 
step  up  and  ring  the  front  door-bell.  I  feel  like 
a  tramp  hanging  to  the  back  of  a  parlor-car. 
What  good  does  my  money  do  me?  Suppose  I 
want  to  take  dinner  at  a  swell  restaurant — I 
wouldn't  know  the  things  to  order,  and  I'd  be 
afraid  of  the  waiters.  Think  of  that,  Shorty." 

I  tried  to;  but  it  was  a  strain.  If  anyone  else 
had  put  it  up  to  me  that  Sadie  Sullivan,  with  a 
roll  of  real  money  as  big  as  a  bale  of  cotton,  could 
lose  her  nerve  just  because  she  didn't  have  a 


SHORTY  McCABE  165 

visitin'-list,  I'd  have  told  'em  to  drop  the  pipe. 
She  was  giving  me  straight  goods,  though.  Why, 
her  lip  was  tremblin'  like  a  lost  kid's. 

"Chuck  it!"  says  I.  "For  a  girl  that  had  a 
whole  bunch  of  Johnnies  on  the  waitin'  list,  and 
her  with  only  one  best  dress  to  her  name  at  the 
time,  you  give  me  an  ache.  I  don't  set  up  for  no 
great  judge  of  form  and  figure;  but  my  eyesight's 
still  good,  I  guess,  and  if  I  was  choosin'  a  likely 
looker,  I'd  back  you  against  the  field." 

That  makes  her  grin  a  little,  and  she  pats  my 
hand  kind  of  sisterly  like.  "It  isn't  men  I  want, 
you  goose;  it's  women — my  own  kind,"  says  she, 
and  the  next  minute  she  gives  me  the  nudge  and 
whispers:  "Now,  watch — the  one  in  the  chiffon 
Panama." 

"Shiff  which?"  says  I.  But  I  sees  the  one  she 
means — a  heavy-weight  person,  rigged  out  like 
a  dry-goods  exhibit  and  topped  off  with  millinery 
from  the  spring  openin',  coming  toward  us  behind 
a  pair  of  nervous  steppers.  She  had  her  lamps 
turned  our  way,  and  I  hears  Sadie  give  her  the 
time  of  day  as  sweet  as  you  please.  She  wasn't 
more'n  six  feet  off,  either;  but  it  missed  fire.  She 
stared  right  through  Sadie,  just  as  if  there 'd  been 
windows  in  her,  and  then  turned  to  cuddle  a  brindle 
pup  on  the  seat  beside  her. 

"Acts  like  she  owed  you  money,"  says  I. 


1 66  SHORTY  McCABE 

"We  swapped  tales  of  domestic  woe  for  two 
weeks  at  Colorado  Springs  season  before  last," 
said  Sadie;  "but  it  seems  that  she's  forgotten. 
That's  Mrs.  Morris  Pettigrew,  whose  husband — " 

"That  one?"  says  I.  "  Why,  she  ain't  such  a 
much,  either.  I  know  folks  that  think  she's  a  joke." 

"She  feels  that  she  can't  afford  to  recognize  me 
on  Fifth-ave.,  just  the  same.  That's  where  I 
stand,"  says  Sadie. 

"It's  a  crooked  deal,  then/'  says  I. 

And  right  there  I  began  to  get  a  glimmer  of  the 
kind  of  game  she  was  up  against.  Talk  about 
freeze-outs! 

"I'll  show  her,  though,  and  the  rest  of  'em!" 
says  Sadie,  stickin'  out  her  cute  little  chin.  "I'm 
not  going  to  quit  yet." 

" Good  for  you! "  says  I.  " It's  a  pastime  I  ain't 
up  in  at  all;  but  if  you  can  ever  find  use  for  me 
behind  the  scenes  anywhere,  just  call  on." 

"I  will,  Shorty,"  says  she,  "and  right  now. 
Come  on  down  to  Sherry's  with  me  for  luncheon." 

"Quit  your  kiddin',"  says  I.  "You  don't  want 
to  queer  the  whole  program  at  the  start.  I'd  be 
lost  in  a  place  like  that — me  in  a  sack  suit  and 
round-top  dicer!  Why,  the  head  waiter'd  say 
'Scat!'  and  I'd  make  a  dive  under  the  table." 

She  said  she  didn't  care  a  red  apple  for  that. 
She  wanted  to  sail  in  there  and  throw  a  bluff,  only 


SHORTY  McCABE  167 

she  couldn't  go  alone,  and  she  guessed  I'd  do  just 
as  I  was. 

Course,  I  couldn't  stand  for  no  fool  play  of  that 
kind;  but  seein'  as  she  was  so  dead  set  on  the 
place,  I  said  we'd  make  it  a  'leven-o' clock  supper, 
after  the  theatre;  but  it  must  be  my  blow. 

"I've  got  the  clothes  that'll  fit  into  a  night 
racket,"  says  I,  "and  besides,  I've  got  to  get  a 
few  points  first." 

"It's  a  go,"  says  she. 

So  we  made  a  date,  and  Sadie  drops  me  at  the 
Studio.  I  goes  right  to  the  'phone  and  calls  up 
Pinckney  at  the  club.  Didn't  I  tell  you  about 
him?  Sure,  that's  the  one.  You  wouldn't  think 
though,  to  see  him  and  me  tappin'  each  other 
with  the  mitts,  that  he  was  a  front  ranker  in  the 
smart  push.  But  he's  all  of  that.  He's  a  pace- 
maker for  the  swiftest  bunch  in  the  world.  Say, 
if  he  should  take  to  walkin'  on  his  hands,  there 
wouldn't  be  no  men's  shoes  sold  on  Fifth-ave. 
for  a  year. 

Well,  he  shows  up  here  about  an  hour  later, 
lookin'  as  fresh  as  though  he'd  just  come  off  the 
farm.  "  Did  you  say  something  about  wanting 
advice,  Shorty?"  says  he. 

"I  did,"  says  I. 

"Religious,  or  otherwise?"  says  he.  "But 
it  makes  no  difference;  I'm  yours  to  command." 


i68  SHORTY  McCABE 

"I  don't  ask  you  to  go  beyond  your  depth," 
says  I.  "  It's  just  a  case  of  orderin'  fancy  grub. 
I'm  due  to  blow  a  lady  friend  of  mine  to  the 
swellest  kind  of  a  supper  that  grows  in  the  borough; 
no  two-dollar  tabble-doty,  understand;  but  a 
special,  real-lace,  eighteen-carat  feed,  with  nothing 
on  the  bill  of  fare  that  ain't  spelled  in  French." 

"Ah!"  says  he,  "something  like  Barquettes 
Bordellaise,  poulet  en  casserole,  fraises  au  cham- 
pagne, and  so  on,  eh?" 

"I  was  about  to  mention  them  very  things," 
says  I.  "  But  my  memory's  on  the  blink.  Could- 
n't you  write  'em  down,  with  a  diagram  of  how  they 
look,  and  whether  you  spear  'em  with  a  fork,  or 
take  'em  in  through  a  straw?" 

"Why,  to  be  sure,"  says  he.  So  he  did,  and 
it  looked  something  like  this : 

"Consomme  au  fumet  d'estaragon  (chicken  soup 
— big  spoon). 

"  Barquettes  Bordellaise  (marrow  on  toast,  with 
mushrooms — fork  only). 

"  Fonds  d' artichauts  Monegosque  (hearts  of  arti- 
chokes in  cream  sauce — fork  and  breadsticks). 

There  was  a  lot  more  to  it,  and  it  wound  up 
with  some  kind  of  cheese  with  a  name  that  sounded 
like  breakin'  a  pane  of  glass. 

I  threw  up  my  hands  at  that.  "  It's  no  go," 
says  I.  "I  couldn't  learn  to  say  all  that  in  a 


SHORTY  McCABE  169 

month.  How  would  it  do  for  me  to  slip  the  waiter 
that  program  and  tell  him  to  follow  copy?" 

"We'll  do  better  than  that?"  says  Pinckney. 
"Where's  your  'phone?" 

Pretty  soon  he  gets  some  one  on  the  wire  that 
he  calls  Felix,  and  they  has  a  heart-to-heart 
talk  in  French  for  about  ten  minutes. 

"It's  all  arranged,"  says  he.  "You  are  to 
hand  my  card  to  the  man  at  the  door  as  you  go 
in,  and  Felix  will  do  the  rest.  Eleven-fifteen  is 
the  hour.  But  I'm  surprised  at  you,  Shorty. 
A  lady,  eh?  Ah,  well!  In  the  spring  the  young 
man's  fancy  gently  turns — " 

"Ah,  say!"  says  I.  "There  ain't  no  call  for 
any  funny  cracks  about  this.  You  know  me, 
and  you  can  guess  I'm  no  Willie-boy.  When  I 
get  a  soft  spot  in  my  head,  and  try  to  win  a  queen, 
it'll  be  done  on  the  dead  quiet,  and  you  won't  hear 
no  call  for  help.  But  this  is  a  different  proposition. 
This  is  a  real  lady,  who's  been  locked  out  by  the 
society  trust,  and  who  takes  an  invite  from  me 
just  because  we  happened  to  know  each  other 
when  we  was  kids." 

"Oh-ho!"  says  Pinckney,  snappin'  them  black 
eyes  the  way  he  does  when  he  gets  real  waked  up. 
"That  sounds  quite  romantic." 

"It  ain't,"  says  I.  "It's  just  as  reg'lar  as 
takin'  your  aunt  to  a  sacred  concert." 


i;o  SHORTY  McCABE 

He  seemed  to  want  to  know  the  details,  though; 
so  I  told  him  all  about  Sadie,  and  how  she'd  been 
ruled  out  of  her  class  by  a  lot  of  stiffs  who  wa'n't 
one-two-sixteen  with  her,  either  for  looks  or  lucre. 

"  And  it's  a  crooked  decision/'  says  I.  "  Maybe 
Sadie  wasn't  brought  up  by  a  Swedish  maid  and 
a  French  governess  from  Chelsea,  Mass.;  but 
she's  on  velvet  now,  and  she's  a  real  hand-picked 
pippin,  too.  What's  more,  she's  a  nice  little 
lady,  with  nothin'  behind  her  that  you  couldn't 
print  in  a  Sunday-school  weekly.  All  she  aims  to 
do  is  to  travel  with  the  money-burners  and  be 
sociable.  And  say,  that's  natural,  ain't  it?" 

"It's  quite  human,"  says  Pinckney,  "and 
what  you've  told  me  about  her  is  very  interesting. 
I  hope  the  little  supper  goes  off  all  right.  Ta-ta, 
Shorty." 

Well,  it  began  frosty  enough;  for  when  it  came 
to  pilothV  a  lady  into  that  swell  mob,  I  had  the 
worst  case  of  stage-fright  you  ever  saw.  Say, 
them  waiters  is  a  haughty-lookin'  lot,  ain't  they? 
But  after  we'd  found  Felix,  and  I'd  passed  him  a 
ten-spot,  and  he'd  bowed  and  scraped  and  towed 
us  across  the  room  like  he  thought  we  held  a 
mortgage  on  the  place,  I  didn't  feel  quite  so  much 
as  if  I'd  got  into  the  wrong  flat. 

I  did  have  something  of  a  chill  when  I  caught 
sight  of  a  sheepish-looking  cuss  in  the  glass.  He 


SHORTY  McCABE  171 

looked  sort  of  familiar,  and  I  was  wondering  what 
he'd  done  to  be  ashamed  of,  when  I  sees  it  was 
me.  Then  I  squints  around  at  the  other  guys 
and  say,  more'n  half  of  'em  wore  the  same  kind 
of  a  look.  It  was  only  the  women  that  seemed 
right  to  home.  There  wasn't  one  in  sight  that 
didn't  have  her  chin  up  and  her  shoulders  back, 
and  carrying  all  the  dog  the  law  allows.  They 
treated  them  stiff-necked  food-slingers  like  they 
was  a  lot  of  wooden  Indians.  You'd  see  'em 
pilin'  their  wraps  on  one  of  them  lordly  gents 
just  as  if  he  was  a  chair.  Then  they'd  plant 
themselves,  spread  out  their  dry-goods,  peel  off 
their  elbow  gloves,  and  proceed  to  rescue  the 
cherry  from  the  bottom  of  the  glass. 

And  Sadie?  Well,  say,  you'd  thought  she'd 
never  had  a  meal  anywhere  else  in  her  life.  The 
way  she  bossed  Felix  around,  and  sized  up  the 
other  folks,  calm  as  a  Chinaman,  was  a  caution. 
And  talk!  I  never  had  so  much  rapid-fire  con- 
versation passed  out  to  me  all  in  a  bunch  before. 
Course,  she  was  just  keepin'  her  end  up,  and 
makin'  believe  I  was  doing  my  share,  too.  But 
it  was  a  mighty  good  imitation.  Every  now  and 
then  she'd  tear  off  a  little  laugh  so  natural  that  I 
could  almost  swear  I'd  said  something  funny, 
only  I  knew  I  hadn't  opened  my  head. 

As  for  me,  I  was  busy  tryin'  to  guess  what  was 


i;z  SHORTY  McCABE 

under  the  silver  covers  that  Felix  kept  bringin'  in, 
and  rememberin'  what  Pinckney  had  said  about 
forks  and  spoons.  Say,  I  suppose  you've  been 
up  against  one  of  those  little  after-the-play-is-over 
suppers  that  they  serve  behind  the  lace  curtains 
on  Fifth-ave. ;  but  this  was  my  first  offense.  Little 
suppers!  Honest,  now,  there  was  more'n  I'd 
want  if  I  hadn't  been  fed  for  a  week.  Generally 
I  can  worry  along  with  three  squares  a  day,  and 
when  I  do  feel  like  havin'  a  bite  before  I  hit  the 
blankets,  a  sweitzerkase  sandwich  does  me.  But 
this  affair  had  seven  acts  to  it,  and  everyone  was 
a  mystery. 

"Why,  I  didn't  know  you  were  such  an  epicure," 
says  Sadie. 

"Me  either,"  says  I;  "but  I'd  never  let  myself 
loose  before.  Have  some  more  pulley  from  the  car- 
rousett  and  help  yourself  to  the — the  other  thing." 

"  Shorty,  tell  me  how  you  managed  it,"  says  she. 

"I've  been  taking  lessons  by  mail,"  says  I. 

"You're  a  dear  to  do  it,  anyway,"  says  she. 
"Just  think  of  the  figure  I'd  cut  coming  here  by 
my  lonesome.  It's  bad  enough  at  the  hotel, 
with  only  Mrs.  Prusset.  And  I've  been  wanting 
to  come  for  weeks.  What  luck  it  was,  rinding  you 
to-day!" 

"Say,  don't  run  away  with  the  idea  that  I'm 
makin'  a  day's  work  of  this,"  says  I.  "I'm 


SHORTY  McCABE  173 

havin'  a  little  fun  out  of  this  myself.  There's 
worse  company  than  you,  y'know." 

"And  I've  met  a  heap  of  men  stupider  than 
Shorty  McCabe,"  says  she,  givin'  me  the  jolly 
with  that  sassy  grin  of  hers,  and  lettin'  go  one 
of  those  gurgly  laughs  that  sounds  as  if  it  had 
been  made  on  a  clarinet. 

It  was  just  about  then  that  I  looks  up  and 
finds  Pinckney  standing  on  one  foot,  waitin'  for 
a  chance  to  butt  in. 

"Why,  professor!    This  is  a  pleasure,"  says  he. 

"Hello!"  says  I.  "Where'd  you  blow  in 
from?" 

Then  I  makes  him  acquainted  with  Sadie,  and 
asks  him  what  it'll  be.  Oh,  he  did  it  well ;  seemed 
as  surprised  as  if  he  hadn't  seen  me  for  a  year, 
and  begins  to  get  acquainted  with  Sadie  right 
away.  I  tried  to  give  her  the  wink,  meanin'  to 
put  her  next  to  the  fact  that  here  was  where  she 
ought  to  come  out  strong  on  the  broad  A's,  and 
throw  in  the  dontcher-knows  frequent;  but  it 
was  no  go.  She  didn't  care  a  rap.  She  talked 
just  as  she  would  to  me,  asked  Pinckney  all  sorts 
of  fool  questions,  and  inside  of  two  minutes  them 
two  was  carryin'  on  like  a  couple  of  kids. 

"I'm  a  rank  outsider  here,  you  know,"  says 
she,  "and  if  it  hadn't  been  for  Shorty  I'd  never 
got  in  at  all.  Oh,  sure,  Shorty  and  I  are  old 


174  SHORTY  McCABE 

chums.  We  used  to  slide  down  the  same  cellar 
door." 

S'elp  me,  I  was  plumb  ashamed  of  Sadie  then, 
givin'  herself  away  like  that.  But  Pinckney 
seemed  to  think  it  was  great  sport.  Pretty  soon 
he  says  he's  got  some  friends  over  at  another 
table,  and  did  she  mind  if  he  brought  'em  over. 

" Think  you'd  better?"  says  she.  "I'm  the 
Mrs.  Dipworthy  of  the  'Drowsy  Drops/  you 
know,  and  that's  a  tag  that  won't  come  off." 

"If  you'll  allow  me,"  says  he,  "I'll  attend  to  the 
tag  business.  They'll  be  delighted  to  meet  you." 

"Say,"  says  I,  soon  as  he'd  left,  "don't  be  a 
sieve,  Sadie.  Just  forget  auld  lang  syne,  and 
remember  that  you're  travelin'  high." 

"They've  got  to  take  me  for  what  I  am,  or  not 
at  all,"  says  she. 

"Yes,  but  you  ain't  got  no  cue  to  tell  the  story 
of  your  life,"  says  I. 

"That's  my  whole  stock  in  trade,  Shorty," 
says  she. 

I  was  lookin'  for  her  to  revise  that  notion  when 
I  sees  the  kind  of  company  Pinckney  was  luggin' 
up  to  spring  on  us.  I'd  seen  their  pictures  in  the 
papers,  and  knew  'em  on  sight.  And  the  pair 
wasn't  anything  but  the  top  of  the  bunch.  You 
know  the  Twombley-Cranes,  that  cut  more  ice 
in  July  than  the  Knickerbocker  Trust  does  all 


SHORTY  McCABE  175 

winter.  Why  say,  to  see  the  house  rubber  at  'em 
as  they  came  sailin'  our  way,  you'd  thought  they 
was  paid  performers  stepping  up  to  do  their  act. 
It  was  a  case  of  bein'  in  the  lime-light  for  us, 
from  that  on. 

"Hully  chee!"  says  I.  "Here's  where  I  ought 
to  fade." 

But  there  wasn't  any  show  to  duck;  for  Felix 
was  chasin'  over  some  more  chairs,  and  Pinckney 
was  doin'  the  honors  all  round,  and  the  first  thing 
I  knew  we  was  a  nice  little  fam'ly  party,  chuckin' 
repartee  across  the  pink  candle  shades,  and  behavin' 
like  star  boarders  that  had  paid  in  advance. 

It  was  Sadie,  though,  that  had  the  centre  of  the 
stage,  and  I'll  be  staggered  if  she  didn't  jump  in 
to  make  her  bluff  good.  She  let  out  everything 
that  she  shouldn't  have  told,  from  how  she  used  to 
wait  on  table  at  her  mother's  boarding-house,  to 
the  way  she'd  got  the  frozen  face  ever  since  she 
came  to  town. 

"But  what  am  I  expected  to  do?"  says  she. 
"I've  got  no  Hetty  Green  grip  on  my  bankbook. 
There's  a  whole  binful  of  the  'Drowsy  Drop' 
dollars,  and  I'm  willing  to  throw  'em  on  the  bon- 
fire just  as  liberal  as  the  next  one,  only  I  want  a 
place  around  the  ring.  There's  no  fun  in  playing 
a  lone  hand,  is  there?  I've  been  trying  to  find  out 
what's  wrong  with  me,  anyway?" 


176  SHORTY  McCABE 

"My  dear  girl/7  says  Mrs.  Twombley-Crane, 
"  there's  nothing  wrong  with  you  at  all.  You're 
simply  delicious.  Isn't  she,  now,  Freddie?" 

And  Freddie  just  grinned.  Say,  some  men  is 
born  wise.  "Professor  McCabe  and  I  are  ex- 
changing views  on  the  coming  light-weight  con- 
test," says  he.  "Don't  mind  us,  my  dear." 

Perhaps  that's  what  we  were  gassin'  about,  or 
why  is  a  hen.  You  can  search  me.  I  was  that 
rattled  with  Sadie's  nerve  display  that  I  didn't 
follow  anything  else  real  close. 

But  when  it  was  all  over,  and  I'd  been  brought 
to  by  a  peep  at  the  bill  the  waiter  handed  me, 
I  couldn't  figure  out  whether  she'd  made  a  bull's- 
eye  or  rung  in  a  false  alarm. 

One  thing  I  did  notice,  as  we  sails  out,  and 
that  was  the  stout  Pettigrew  person  who'd  passed 
Sadie  the  pickled  pig's  foot  on  the  avenue  that 
afternoon.  She  was  sitting  opposite  a  skimpy 
little  runt  with  a  bald  head,  at  a  table  up  near  the 
door  where  the  waiters  juggled  soup  over  her 
feathers  every  time  they  passed.  Her  eyes  were 
glued  on  Sadie  as  we  came  up,  and  by  the  spread  of 
the  furrows  around  her  mouth  I  see  she  was 
tryin'  to  crack  a  smile. 

"Now,"  thinks  I,  "here's  where  she  collects 
chilblains  and  feels  the  mercury  drop." 

But  say!  would  you  look  for  it  in  a  dream  book? 


SHORTY  McCABE  177 

What  does  Sadie  do  but  pass  her  out  the  glad 
hand  and  coo  away,  like  a  pouter  pigeon  on  a 
cornice,  about  being  tickled  to  see  her  again.  Oh, 
they  get  me  dizzy,  women  do ! 

That  wa'n't  a  marker  though,  to  the  reverse 
English  carom  Sadie  takes  after  we'd  got  into  a 
cab  and  started  for  her  hotel.  Was  there  a  jolly 
for  me,  or  a  "  Thank  you,  Shorty,  I've  had  the 
time  of  my  life?"  Nothin'  like  it.  She  just 
slumped  into  her  corner  and  switched  on  the 
boo-hoos  like  a  girl  that's  been  kept  after  school. 

"Enjoy  yourself,  Sadie,"  says  I.  "Only  re- 
member that  this  is  a  hansom,  not  a  street 
sprinkler." 

That  didn't  fetch  her;  so  after  a  while  I  tries 
her  again.  "What  went  wrong?"  says  I.  "Was 
she  stringin'  you,  or  was  it  the  way  I  wore  my 
face  that  queered  the  show?" 

"It's  all  right,  Shorty,"  says  she  between 
weeps.  "And  nothing's  wrong,  nothing  at  all. 
Mrs.  What's-Her-Name's  asked  me  to  stay  a 
week  with  her  at  their  Newport  place,  and  old 
Mrs.  Pettigrew  will  turn  green  before  morning 
thinking  of  me,  and  I've  shaken  the  hoodoo  at 
last.  But  it  all  came  so  much  in  a  lump  that  I 
just  had  to  turn  on  the  sprayer.  You  know 
how  I  feel,  don't  you,  Shorty?" 

"Sure,"  says  I,  "just  as  well  as  if  you'd  sent 

12 


178  SHORTY  McCABE 

me  a  picture  postal  of  the  place  you  boarded 
last." 

But  say,  I  turned  the  trick,  didn't  I?  I  didn't 
know  what  was  comin'  out  of  the  box,  of  course; 
and  maybe  I  was  some  jolted  at  thro  win'  three 
sixes  to  a  pair,  but  there  they  lay. 

No,  I  ain't  goin'  into  the  boostin'  line  as  a 
reg'lar  thing;  but  I  guess  if  any  amateur  in  the 
business  gets  a  rose  nailed  on  him,  I  ought  to  be 
the  gent.  Not? 


CHAPTER  VIII 

DID  you  shut  the  hall  door?  That's  right. 
There's  no  tellin'  what's  liable  to  float  in  here 
any  time.  Say,  if  they  don't  quit  it,  I'll  get  to 
be  one  of  these  nervous  prostraters,  that  think 
themselves  sick  abed  without  half  tryin'.  Sure, 
I'm  just  convalescin'  from  the  last  shock. 

How?  Now  make  a  guess.  Well,  it  was  this 
way:  I  was  sittin'  right  here  in  the  front  office, 
readin'  the  sportin'  dope  and  takin'  me  reg'lar 
mornin'  sunbath,  when  the  door-buzzer  goes  off, 
and  in  drifts  about  a  hundred  and  ninety  pounds 
of  surprise  package. 

There  was  a  foreign  label  on  it,  all  right;  but 
I  didn't  know  until  later  that  it  read  "Made  in 
Austria."  He  was  a  beefy  sort  of  gent,  with  not 
much  neck  to  speak  of,  and  enough  curly  black 
hair  to  shingle  a  French  poodle.  He  was  well 
colored,  too.  Beats  the  cars,  don't  it,  the  good 
health  that's  wasted  on  some  of  these  foreigners? 

But  what  takes  my  eye  most  was  his  trousseau. 
Say!  he  was  dressed  to  the  minute,  from  the  pink  in 
his  buttonhole,  to  the  mother-of-pearl  gloves;  and 
the  back  of  his  frock  coat  had  an  in-curve  such  as 
your  forty-fat  sisters  dream  about.  Why,  as  far 
as  lines  went,  he  had  Jimmy  Hackett  and  Robert 


i8o  SHORTY  McCABE 

Mantell  on  the  back  shelf.  Oh,  he  was  a  crusher, 
sure! 

"I  have  the  purpose  of  finding  Prof-fes-seur 
McCabby,"  says  he,  reading  it  off'n  a  card. 

"  If  you  mean  McCabe,"  says  I, "  I'm  discovered." 

"Is-  it  you  that  are  also  by  the  name  of  Shortee?  " 
says  he. 

"Shorty  for  short,"  says  I,  "and  P.  C.  D.  on 
the  end  to  lengthen  it  out — Physical  Culture 
Director,  that  stands  for.  Now  do  you  want  my 
thumb-print,  and  a  snap-shot  of  my  family- tree?" 

That  seemed  to  stun  him  a  little;  but  he  revived 
after  a  minute,  threw  out  his  chest,  lifted  his  silk 
lid,  and  says,  solemn  as  a  new  notary  public  takin' 
the  oath  of  office:  "I  am  Baron  Patchouli." 

"You  look  it,"  says  I.     "Have  a  chair." 

"I  am,"  says  he,  gettin'  a  fresh  start,  "Baron 
Patchouli,  of  Hamstadt  and  Diisseldorf." 

"All  right,"  says  I,  "take  the  settee.  How  are 
all  the  folks  at  home?" 

But  say,  there  wa'n't  any  use  tryin'  to  jolly  him 
into  makin'  a  short  cut  of  it.  He'd  got  his  route 
of  parade  all  planned  out  and  he  meant  to  stick 
by  it. 

"Professeur  McCabby—"  says  he. 

"Don't,"  says  I.  "You  make  me  feel  like  I'd 
been  transplanted  into  French  and  was  runnin' 
a  hack-line.  Call  it  McCabe — a-b-e,  abe." 


SHORTY  McCABE  181 

"One  thousand  pardons/7  says  he,  and  tries 
again.  This  time  he  gets  it — almost,  and  I  lets 
him  spiel  away.  Oh,  mama!  but  I  wish  I  could 
say  it  the  way  he  did!  It  would  let  me  on  the 
Proctor  circuit,  if  I  could.  But  boiled  down  and 
skimmed,  it  was  all  about  how  I  was  a  kind  of 
safety-deposit  vault  for  everything  he  had  to  live 
for. 

"My  hopes,  my  fortune,  my  happiness,  the  very 
breath  of  my  living,  it  is  all  with  you,"  says  he  as  a 
windup,  hittin'  a  Caruso  pose,  arms  out,  toes  in, 
and  his  breath  comin'  hard. 

How  was  that  for  news  from  home?  I  did 
some  swift  surmisin',  and  then  I  says,  soothin' 
like:  "Yes,  I  know;  but  don't  take  on  about  it 
so.  They're  all  right,  just  as  you  handed  'em 
over;  only  I  asked  me  friend  the  Sarge  to  lock 
'em  up  till  you  called.  We'll  walk  around  and 
see  the  Sarge  right  away." 

"Ah!"  says  he,  bat  tin'  his  noble  brow,  "you 
do  not  comprehend.  You  make  to  laugh.  And 
me,  I  come  to  you  from  the  adorable  Sadie." 

"Sadie?"  says  I.     "Sadie  Sullivan  that  was?" 

He  bows  and  grins. 

"If  you've  got  credentials  from  Sadie,"  says  I, 
"it's  all  right.  Now,  what's  doing?  Does  she 
want  me  to  match  samples,  or  show  you  the 
sights  along  the  White  Lane?" 


i8z  SHORTY  McCABE 

"Ah,  the  adorable  Sadie!"  says  he,  rollin'  his 
eyes,  and  puffin'  out  his  cheeks  like  he  was  tryin' 
the  lung-tester.  "I  drive  with  her,  I  walk  with 
her,  I  sit  by  her  side — one  day,  two  day,  a  week. 
Well,  what  happens?  I  am  charm,  I  am  fascinate, 
I  am  become  her  slave.  I  make  to  resist.  I  say 
to  myself:  'You!  You  are  of  the  noble  Austrian 
blood;  the  second-cousin  of  your  mother  is  a 
grand  duke;  you  must  not  forget.'  Then  again 
I  see  Sadie.  Pouff!  I  have  no  longer  pride;  but 
only  I  luff.  It  is  enough.  I  ask  of  her :  '  Madam 
Deepworth,  where  is  the  father  of  you?'  She 
say  he  is  not.  'Then  the  uncle  of  you?'  I  demand. 
She  say:  'I'm  shy  on  uncles.'  'But  to  who, 
then,'  I  ask, '  must  I  declare  my  honorable  passion? ' 
'Oh/  she  say,  'tell  it  to  Shorty  McCabe.'  Ha!  I 
leap,  I  bound!  I  go  to  M.  Pinckney.  'Tell  me,' 
I  say,  'where  is  to  be  found  one  Shorty  McCabe?' 
And  he  sends  me  to  you.  I  am  come." 

On  the  level,  now,  it  went  like  that.  Maybe 
I've  left  out  some  of  the  frills,  but  that  was  the 
groundwork  of  his  remarks. 

"Yes,"  says  I,  "you're  a  regular  come-on.  I 
guess  the  adorable  Sadie  has  handed  you  a  josh. 
She's  equal  to  it." 

But  that  got  by  him.  He  just  stood  there, 
teeterin'  up  and  down  on  his  patent  leathers,  and 
grinnin'  like  a  monkey. 


SHORTY  McCABE  183 

"I  say/'  says  I,  " she's  run  you  on  a  sidin', 
dropped  you  down  a  coal-hole.  Do  you  get 
wise?" 

Did  he?  Not  so  you  would  notice  it.  He  goes 
on  grinnin'  and  teeterin',  like  he  was  on  exhibition 
in  a  museum  and  I  was  the  audience.  Then  he 
gets  a  view  of  himself  in  the  glass  over  the  safe 
there,  and  begins  to  pat  down  his  astrakhan 
thatch,  and  punch  up  his  puff  tie,  and  dust  off  his 
collar.  Ever  see  one  of  these  peroxide  cloak 
models  doin'  a  march  past  the  show  windows  on 
her  day  off?  Well,  the  Baron  had  all  those  mo- 
tions and  a  few  of  his  own.  He  was  ornamental, 
all  right,  and  it  wa'n't  any  news  to  him  either. 

About  then,  though,  I  begins  to  wonder  if  I 
hadn't  been  a  little  too  sure  about  Sadie.  There's 
no  tellin',  when  it  comes  to  women,  you  know; 
and  when  it  hit  me  that  perhaps,  after  all,  she'd 
made  up  her  mind  to  tag  this  one  from  Austria, 
you  could  have  fried  an  egg  on  me  anywhere. 

"Look  here,  Patchouli,"  says  I.  "Is  this 
straight  about  you  and  Sadie?  Are  you  the 
winner?" 

"Ah,  the  adorable  Sadie!"  says  he,  comin'  back 
to  earth  and  slappin'  his  solar  plexus  with  one 
hand. 

"We've  covered  that  ground,"  says  I.  "V/hat 
I  want  to  know  is,  does  she  cotton  to  you?" 


184  SHORTY  McCABE 

"Cot-ion?  Cot-ton?"  says  he,  humpin'  his 
eyebrows  like  a  French  ballad  singer. 

"Are  you  the  fromage?"  says  I.  "Is  she  as 
stuck  on  you  as  you  are  on  yourself?  Have  you 
made  good?" 

He  must  have  got  a  glimmer  from  that;  for  he 
rolls  his  eyes  some  more,  breathes  once  like  an 
air-brake  bein'  cut  out,  and  says:  "Our  luff  is 
like  twin  stars  in  the  sky — each  for  the  other 
shines." 

"It's  as  bad  as  all  that,  is  it?"  says  I.  "Well, 
all  I've  got  to  say  is  that  I'd  never  thought  it  of 
Sadie ;  and  if  she  sent  you  down  here  on  approval, 
you  can  tell  her  I'm  satisfied  if  she  is." 

I  figured  that  would  jar  him  some,  but  it  didn't. 
He  looked  as  pleased  as  though  I'd  told  him  he 
was  the  ripest  berry  in  the  box,  and  before  I  knew 
what  was  comin'  he  had  the  long-lost-brother 
tackle  on  me,  and  was  almost  weepin'  on  my  neck, 
splutterin'  joy  in  seven  different  kinds  of  language. 
Just  then  Swifty  Joe  bobs  his  head  in  through  the 
gym.  door,  springs  that  gorilla^grin  of  his,  and 
ducks  back. 

"Break  away!"  says  I.  "I  don't  want  to  spoil 
the  looks  of  anythin'  that  Sadie's  picked  out  to 
frame,  but  this  thing  has  gone  about  far  enough. 
If  you're  glad,  and  she's  glad,  then  I  ain't  got  any 
kick  comin'.  Only  don't  rub  it  in." 


He  had  the  long-lost-brother  tackle  on  me. 


!    2 


SHORTY  McCABET  185 

Say,  it  was  like  talkin'  to  a  deaf  man,  sayin'  things 
to  the  Baron. 

"She's  mine,  yes?"  says  he.  "I  have  your 
permission,  Professeur  McCabe?" 

"Sure,"  says  I.  "If  she'll  have  you,  take  her 
and  welcome." 

Now  you'd  thought  that  would  have  satisfied 
him,  wouldn't  you?  But  he  acted  like  he'd  got 
a  half-arm  jolt  on  the  wind.  He  backed  off  and 
cooled  down  as  if  I'd  chucked  a  pail  of  water 
over  him. 

"Well,"  says  I,  "you  don't  want  it  in  writin', 
do  you?  I'm  just  out  of  permit  blanks,  and  me 
secretary's  laid  up  writh  a  bad  case  of  McGrawitis. 
If  I  was  you,  I'd  skip  back  and  keep  my  eye  on 
Sadie.  She  might  change  her  mind." 

The  Baron  thought  he'd  seen  a  red  flag,  though. 
He  put  in  a  worry  period  that  lasted  while  you 
could  count  fifty.  Then  he  forks  out  his  trouble. 

"It  is  not  possible  that  I  have  mistake,  is  it?" 
says  he.  "I  am  learn  that  Madam  Deepworth 
is — what  you  call — one  heiress?  No?" 

See?  I'd  been  sort  of  lookin'  for  that;  and 
there  it  was,  as  plain  as  a  real-estate  map  of  Gates 
of  Paradise,  Long  Island.  Me  bein'  so  free  and 
easy  with  tellin'  him  to  help  himself  had  thrown 
up  a  horrible  suspicion  to  him.  Was  it  true  that 
Sadie's  roll  was  real  money,  the  kind  you  could 


186  SHORTY  McCABE 

spend  at  the  store?  And  say,  long's  it  was  up  to 
me  to  write  her  prospectus,  I  thought  I  might  as 
well  make  it  a  good  one. 

"Do  you  see  that  movin'-van  out  there?" 
says  I. 

The  Baron  saw  it. 

"And  have  you  been  introduced  to  these?"  I 
says,  flashin'  a  big,  wrist-size  wad  of  tens  and 
fives. 

Oh,  he  was  acquainted  all  right. 

"Well,"  says  I,  "Sadie's  got  enough  of  these 
put  away  to  fill  two  carts  like  that." 

Fetch  him?  Why,  his  fingers  almost  burnt  a 
hole  through  his  gloves. 

"Ah-h-h!"  says  he,  and  takes  a  little  time  out 
to  picture  himself  dippin'  into  the  family  pocket- 
book. 

Course,  it  wa'n't  any  of  my  funeral,  but  when  I 
thinks  of  a  sure-enough  live  one,  like  Sadie,  that 
I'd  always  supposed  had  a  head  like  a  billiard 
table,  gettin'  daffy  about  any  such  overstuffed 
frankfurter  as  this  specimen,  I  felt  like  someone 
had  shoved  a  blue  quarter  on  me.  Worst  of  it 
was,  I'd  held  the  step-ladder  for  her  to  climb  up 
where  such  things  grow. 

I  was  gettin'  rawer  to  the  touch  every  minute, 
and  was  tryin'  to  make  up  my  mind  whether  to 
give  the  Baron  a  quick  run  down  the  stairs,  or  go 


SHORTY  McCABE  187 

off  an'  leave  him  to  dislocate  his  neck  tryin'  to 
see  the  small  of  his  back  in  the  mirror;  when  in 
comes  Pinckney,  with  that  little  sparkle  in  his 
eyes  that  I've  come  to  know  means  any  kind  of 
sport  you're  a  mind  to  name. 

"Hello!"  says  he,  givin'  the  Baron  a  hand. 
"You  found  him,  eh?  Hello,  Shorty.  Got  it  all 
fixed,  have  you?" 

"Say,"  says  I,  pullin'  Pinckney  over  by  the 
window,  "did  you  put  this  up  on  me?" 

He  said  he  didn't,  honest. 

"  Then  take  your  fat  friend  by  the  hand,"  says  I, 
"and  lead  him  off  where  things  ain't  liable  to 
happen  to  him." 

"Why,  what's  up,  Shorty?"  says  he.  "Have- 
n't you  given  him  your  blessing,  and  told  him  to 
go  in  and  win?" 

"Switch  off!"  says  I.  "I've  heard  enough  of 
that  from  the  Baron  to  last  me  a  year.  What's 
it  all  about,  anyway?  Suppose  he  has  laid  his 
plans  to  Miznerize  Sadie;  what's  he  want  to  come 
hollerin'  about  it  to  me  for?  I'm  no  matrimonial 
referee,  am  I?" 

I  knew  some  thin'  was  ticklin' Pinckney  inside; 
but  he  put  up  a  front  like  a  Special  Sessions  judge. 
"Baron,"  says  he,  callin'  over  to  Patchouli,  "I 
forgot  to  mention  that  our  friend,  the  professor, 
doesn't  understand  the  European  system  of  con- 


188  SHORTY  McCABE 

ducting  such  affairs  as  this.  If  you'll  pardon 
me,  I'll  make  it  clear  to  him." 

Well,  he  did  and  a  lot  more.  It  seems  that  the 
Baron  was  a  ringer  in  the  set  where  Sadie  and 
Pinckney  had  been  doing  the  week-end  house- 
party  act.  He'd  been  travelin'  on  that  handle  of 
his,  makin'  some  broad  jumps  and  quick  shifts, 
until  he'd  worked  himself  up,  from  a  visitor's 
card  at  a  second-rate  down-town  club,  to  the 
kind  of  folks  that  quit  New  York  at  Easter  and 
don't  come  back  until  the  snow  flies  again.  They 
don't  squint  too  close  at  a  title  in  that  crowd, 
you  know. 

First  thing  the  Baron  hears,  of  course,  is  about 
the  Drowsy  Drop  dollars  and  the  girl  that's  got 
'em.  He  don't  lose  any  time  after  that  in  makin' 
up  to  Sadie.  He  freezes  to  her  like  a  Park  Row 
wuxtree  boy  does  to  a  turkey  drumstick  at  a 
newsies'  Christmas  dinner,  and  for  Pinckney  and 
the  rest  of  'em  it  was  as  good  as  a  play. 

"Huh!"  says  I.  "You're  easy  pleased,  ain't 
you?  But  I  want  to  tell  you  that  it  grouches  me 
a  lot  to  think  that  Sadie'd  fall  for  any  such  wad- 
hunt  in'  party  as  that." 

"What  ho!"  says  Pinckney.  "Here's  a  com- 
plication that  we  hadn't  suspected." 

"Meanin'  which?"  says  I. 

"Perhaps  it  would  be  better  to  postpone  that 


SHORTY  McCABE  189 

explanation,"  says  he;  "but  I  sympathize  with 
your  state  of  mind,  Shorty.  However,  what's 
done  is  done,  and  meanwhile  the  Baron  is  waiting." 

"It  wouldn't  surprise  me  .none,"  says  I,  "to 
hear  that  that's  his  trade.  But  say,  what  kind  of 
a  steer  is  ^it  that  brings  him  to  me?  I  ain't  got 
that  straight  yet." 

Pinckney  goes  on  to  say  as  how  the  foreign  style 
of  negotiatin'  for  a  girl  is  more  or  less  of  a  business 
proposition;  and  that  Sadie,  not  havin'  any  old 
folks  handy  to  make  the  deal,  and  maybe  not 
havin'  the  game  clear  in  her  own  mind,  shoves  him 
my  way,  just  offhand. 

"To  be  sure,"  says  Pinckney,  "whatever 
arrangements  you  may  happen  to  make  will  not 
be  binding,  but  they  will  satisfy  the  Baron.  So 
just  act  as  if  you  had  full  authority,  and  we'll  see 
if  there  are  any  little  details  that  he  wants  to 
mention." 

Sure  enough,  there  was.  He  handed  'em  to 
me  easy;  oh,  nice  and  easy!  He  didn't  want 
much  for  a  starter — just  a  trifle  put  within  easy 
reach  before  the  knot  was  tied,  a  mere  matter  of 
ten  million  francs. 

"No  Jims  nor  Joes?"  says  I. 

"The  Baron  is  accustomed  to  reckoning  in 
francs,"  says  Pinckney.  "He  means  two  million 
dollars." 


190  SHORTY  McCABE 

"Two  million  cases?"  says  I,  catchin'  my 
breath.  Well,  say!  I  had  to  take  another  look 
at  him.  If  I  could  think  as  well  of  myself  as  that 
I  wouldn't  ask  no  better. 

"Patchouli,"  says  I,  "you're  too  modest.  You 
shouldn't  put  yourself  on  the  bargain  counter 
like  that." 

The  Baron  looks  like  I'd  said  somethin'  to  him 
in  Chinese. 

"The  professor  thinks  that  demand  is  quite 
reasonable,  considering  all  things,"  says  Pinck- 
ney. 

And  that  went  with  the  Baron.  Then  he  has 
to  shake  hands  all  round,  same's  if  we'd  signed 
terms  for  a  championship  go,  and  him  and  Pinck- 
ney  gets  under  way  for  some  private  high-ball 
factory  over  on  the  avenue.  I  wa'n't  sorry  to 
lose  'em.  Somehow  I  wanted  to  get  my  mind  on 
something  else. 

Well,  I  put  in  a  busy  mornin',  tryin'  to  teach 
blocks  and  jabs  to  a  couple  of  youngsters  that 
thinks  boxin'  is  a  kind  of  wrist  exercise,  like  piano- 
playin',  and  I'd  got  a  pound  or  so  off  a  nice  plump 
old  Bishop,  who  comes  here  for  hand-ball  and 
stunts  like  that.  I  was  still  feelin'  a  bit  ugly  and 
wishin'  there  was  somethin'  sizable  around  to 
take  it  out  on,  when  in  comes  Curly  Locks  and 
Pinckney  again. 


SHORTY  McCABE  191 

"Has  he  made  up  his  mind  that  he  wants  my 
wad,  too?"  says  I  to  Pinckney. 

"No/'  says  he.  "The  Baron  has  discovered 
that  up  where  Sadie  is  staying  the  law  requires  a 
prospective  bridegroom  to  equip  himself  with  a 
marriage  license.  He  thinks  he  will  get  one  in 
town  and  take  it  back  with  him.  Now,  as  you 
know  all  about  such  things,  Shorty,  and  as  I  have 
an  appointment  at  twelve-thirty,  I'll  leave  the 
Baron  with  you.  So  long!"  and  he  gives  me  the 
wink  as  he  slides  out. 

Say,  I  had  my  cue  this  trip,  all  right.  I  couldn't 
see  just  why  it  was,  but  the  Baron  had  been  passed 
up  to  me.  He  was  mine  for  keeps.  I  could  hang 
him  out  for  a  sign,  or  wire  a  pan  to  him.  And  he 
was  as  innocent,  the  Baron  was,  as  a  new  boy  sent 
to  the  harness  shop  after  strap  oil.  He'd  got  his 
eyes  fixed  on  the  Drowsy  Drops  bank-account,  and 
he  couldn't  see  anything  else.  He  must  have 
sized  me  up  as  a  sort  of  Santa  Glaus  that  didn't  have 
anything  to  do  between  seasons  but  to  be  good  to 
his  kind. 

"So  you  want  to  take  out  a  license,  do  you?" 
says  I,  comin'  a  Mr.  Smooth  play. 

"If  the  professeur  would  be  so  oblige,"  says  he. 

"Oh,  sure,"  says  I.  "That's  my  steady  job. 
A  marriage  license,  eh?" 

I  had  a  nineteenth-story  view  of  the  scheme  he'd 


IQ2  SHORTY  McCABE 

built  up.  He  means  to  go  back  heeled  with  the 
permit  from  me,  with  the  little  matter  of  the  two 
million  ready  all  cinched,  and  the  weddin'-papers 
in  his  inside  pocket.  Then  he  does  the  whirlwind 
rush  at  Sadie,  and  as  he  dopes  it  out  to  himself, 
figurin'  on  what  a  crusher  he  is,  he  don't  see  how 
he  can  lose.  And  I  suppose  he  thinks  he  can  buy 
a  marriage  license  most  anywhere,  same's  you 
can  a  money-order. 

With  that  I  had  a  stroke  of  thought.  They 
don't  hit  me  very  often,  but  when  they  do,  they 
come  hard.  I  had  to  go  over  to  the  water  cooler 
and  grin  into  the  tumbler.  Then  I  walks  up  to  the 
Baron  and  taps  him  on  the  chest. 

"Patchouli,"  says  I,  "you  come  with  me.  I'll 
get  you  a  Romeo  outfit  that'll  astonish  the  natives." 

It  took  me  about  two  hours,  chasin'  him  down 
to  the  Bureau  of  Licenses,  and  huntin'  up  me  old 
side  partner,  Jimmy  Fitzpatrick,  that's  the  main 
guy  there.  But  I  didn't  grudge  the  time.  Jimmy 
helped  me  out  a  lot.  He's  a  keen  one,  Jimmy  is, 
and  when  he'd  got  next,  he  threw  in  a  lot  of 
flourishes  just  where  they  was  needed  most.  He 
never  cracked  a  smile,  either,  when  the  Baron 
tipped  him  a  dime. 

I  didn't  let  loose  of  Patchouli  until  I'd  seen  him 
stow  away  that  sealed  envelope,  and  had  put  him 
aboard  the  right  train  at  the  Grand  Central.  Then 


SHORTY  McCABE  193 

I  went  back  to  the  Studio  lookin'  so  contented  that 
Swifty  struck  me  for  a  raise. 

That  was  on  a  Monday.  Long  about  Thursday 
I  thought  I  might  get  word  from  Pinckney,  or 
some  of  'em;  but  there  was  nothin'  doin'. 

"Somebody's  put  Curly  Locks  wise/'  thinks  I, 
"or  else  he's  sneaked  away  to  jump  off  the  dock." 

I  didn't  have  anyone  on  that  afternoon;  so  I 
was  just  workin'  off  a  little  steam  on  a  punchin'- 
bag,  doing  the  long  roll  and  a  few  other  stunts. 
I  was  getting  nicely  warmed  up,  and  hit  tin'  the 
baloon  at  the  rate  of  about  a  hundred  and  fifty 
raps  a  minute,  when  I  hears  somebody  break  past 
Swifty  and  roar  out: 

"Where  he  iss?    Let  me  to  him!" 

It  was  the  Baron,  his  mustache  bristlin'  out 
like  a  bottle-cleaner,  and  blood  in  his  eye.  "Ha- 
r-r-r!"  says  he  in  real  heavy- villain  style.  "You 
make  me  a  joke,  you?" 

"G'wan!"  says  I  over  me  shoulder.  "You 
was  born  a  joke.  Sit  down  and  cool  off;  for  it's 
your  next,"  and  with  that  I  goes  at  the  bag  again. 

Say,  it  ain't  much  of  a  trick  to  fight  the  bag, 
y'know.  Most  any  Y.  M.  C.  A.  kid  can  get  the 
knack  of  catchin'  it  on  his  elbows  and  collarbone, 
makin'  it  drum  out  a  tune  like  the  finish  of  a 
Dutch  opera.  And  that's  about  all  I  was  doin', 
only  chuckin'  a  few  extra  pounds  into  it  maybe. 
13 


194  SHORTY  McCABE 

But  if  you  don't  know  how  easy  it  is,  it  looks 
like  a  curtain-raiser  for  manslaughter.  And  I 
reckon  the  Baron  hadn't  any  idea  I'd  strip  as 
bunchy  as  I  do. 

Course,  there's  no  tellin'  just  what  went  on  in 
his  mind  while  he  stood  there.  Swifty  says  his 
mouth  come  open  gradual,  like  a  bridge  draw 
that's  being  swung  for  a  tug;  and  his  eyes  began 
to  bug  out,  and  the  noble  Austrian  assault-and- 
battery  blood  faded  out  of  his  face  same's  the 
red  does  in  one  of  Belasco's  sunsets.  And  pretty 
soon,  when  I  thought  my  little  grandstand  play'd 
had  a  chance  to  sink  in,  I  throws  a  good  stiff  one 
into  the  bag,  ducks  from  under,  and  turns  around 
to  sing  out  "Next!"  to  the  Baron. 

But  he  wa'n't  in  sight.  Pinckney  was  there 
though,  and  Sadie  behind  him,  both  lookin'  wild. 

"Hello!"  says  I.  "Where's  Patchouli?  He 
was  anxious  to  see  me  a  minute  ago." 

"He  seemed  anxious  not  to,  when  he  passed  us 
on  the  stairs  just  now,"  says  Pinckney. 

"Did  he  leave  any  word?"  says  I. 

"He  just  said  'Bah!'  and  jumped  into  a  cab," 
says  Pinckney. 

"He  didn't  hurt  you,  did  he?"  says  Sadie. 

"What,  him?"  says  I.  "Not  that  I  know 
about.  But  I've  got  this  to  tell  you,  Mrs.  Dip- 
worthy:  if  you  put  any  high  value  on  your  new 


SHORTY  McCABE  195 

steady,  you'd  better  chase  him  off  this  reserva- 
tion." 

"Why,  Shorty  McCabe!"  says  she,  takin'  me  by 
the  shoulders  and  turnin'  them  blue  eyes  of  hers 
straight  at  me.  "My  new  steady?  That — that 
woolly-haired  freak?" 

Say,  you  could  have  slipped  me  into  the  penny 
slot  of  a  gum  machine.  Oh,  fudge!  Piffle! 
Splash!  It's  a  wonder  when  I  walk  I  don't  make 
a  noise  like  a  sponge — I  take  some  things  in  so 
easy.  Is  it  curious  my  head  never  aches? 

Pinckney  sees  how  bad  I  was  feelin',  and  he  cuts 
in  to  tell  me  how  things  had  worked  out.  And 
say,  do  you  know  what  that  Patchouli  had 
done? 

After  I  left  him  he  goes  back  tickled  to  death, 
and  waits  for  an  openin'.  Then,  one  night  when 
they  was  havin'  a  big  hunt  ball,  or  some  kind  of 
swell  jinks,  he  tolls  Sadie  into  the  palm-room, 
drops  to  the  mat  on  his  knees,  and  fires  off  that 
twin-star-luff  speech,  beggin'  her  to  fly  with  him 

id  be  his'n.  As  a  capper  he  digs  up  that  envelop, 
show  her  there  needn't  be  any  hitch  in  the 
>rogram. 

" What's  this?"  says  Sadie,  making  a  sudden 
rab  and  gettin'  the  goods.  With  that  she  lets 
a  string  of  giggles  and  streaks  it  out  into  the 

ll-room. 


196  SHORTY  McCABE 

"It  is  the  document  of  our  marriage,"  says  the 
Baron,  makin'  a  bold  bluff. 

"Oh,  is  it?"  says  she,  openin'  the  thing  up,  and 
reading  it  off.  "Why,  Baron,  this  doesn't  give 
you  leave  to  marry  anyone,"  says  Sadie;  "this 
is  a  peddler's  license,  and  here's  the  badge,  too. 
If  you  wear  this  you  can  stand  on  the  corner  and 
sell  shoe-laces  and  collar-buttons.  I'd  advise  you 
to  go  do  it." 

It  was  while  the  crowd  was  howlin'  and  pinnin' 
the  fakir's  tag  on  him  that  he  began  to  froth  at 
the  mouth  and  tell  how  he  was  comin'  down  to 
make  mincemeat  of  me. 

"That's  why  we  followed  him,"  says  Pinckney 
— "to  avert  bloodshed." 

"If  he  had  so  much  as  touched  you,  Shorty," 
says  Sadie,  "I  would  have  spent  my  pile  to  have 
had  him  sent  up  for  life." 

"Oh,  it  wouldn't  have  cost  that  much,"  says  I. 
"  With  me  thinkin'  the  way  I  did  then,  maybe  there 
wouldn't  have  been  a  whole  lot  left  to  send." 

Ah,  look  away!  I  ain't  tellin'  what  Sadie  did 
next.  But  say,  she's  a  hummin'-bird,  Sadie  is. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

How  about  him,  eh? — the  two-spot  of  clubs  in 
billiard  cloth  and  buttons  at  the  door.  There's 
no  tellin'  what  the  Studio'll  have  next — maybe 
a  sidewalk  canopy  and  a  carriage  caller.  Swifty 
Joe's  gettin'  ambitious.  Me  gettin'  mixed  up 
with  that  Newport  push  has  gone  to  Swifty's  head 
like  a  four-line  notice  does  to  the  pompadour  of 
a  second  row  chorus  girl.  First  off  he  says  it's 
a  shame  I  don't  have  a  valet. 

"Say,"  says  I,  "don't  it  keep  me  busy  enough 
remindin'  you  that  I'm  still  able  to  wear  my  own 
clothes,  without  puttin'  on  an  extra  hand?" 

But  after  this  last  stunt  he  broke  out  again;  so 
we  compromised  on  Congo.  I  thought  Swifty'd 
had  him  made  to  order,  uniform  and  all;  but  he 
says  he  found  him,  just  as  he  stands,  doin'  the 
stray  act  over  on  Sixth-ave.  He'd  come  up  from 
New  Orleans  with  a  fortune-tellin'  gent  that  had 
got  himself  pinched  for  doing  a  little  voudoo 
turn  on  the  side,  and  as  Congo  didn't  have  much 
left  but  his  appetite,  I  put  him  on  the  pay-roll 
at  two  per  and  found.  And  say,  I'm  stung,  at 
that.  To  look  at  him  you'd  think  a  ham  sand- 
wich would  run  him  over;  but  he's  got  a  capacity 
like  a  shop-lifter's  pocket.  For  three  days  I 


198  SHORTY  McCABE 

tried  to  feed  him  up  on  the  retail  plan,  and  then 
I  let  out  the  contract  to  a  free-lunch  supply 
concern. 

Sure,  it  gives  the  joint  kind  of  a  swell  look, 
havin'  him  on  the  door,  and  if  it  didn't  act  the 
same  on  Swifty's  head  I  wouldn't  kick. 

On  the  dead  now,  I  don't  care  so  much  about 
loomin'  up  in  the  picture.  There's  them  that  it 
suits  down  to  the  ground,  and  that  shows  up  well 
in  front;  and  then  again,  there's  a  lot  of  people 
gets  the  spot  light  on  'em  continual  who'd  be 
better  off  in  the  shade.  I'm  a  top-gallery  boy,  by 
rights,  and  that's  where  you'll  find  me  most  of 
the  time;  but  now  and  then  I  get  dragged  down 
into  the  wings  with  a  note.  Yes,  yes,  I'm  just 
back  after  one  of  them  excursions. 

You  see,  after  we'd  shunted  Sadie's  Baron  back 
on  to  the  goulash  circuit,  where  he  belonged,  and 
Sadie  and  Pinckney  had  got  over  their  merry  fit 
and  skipped  off  to  wake  up  another  crowd  of  time 
assassinators,  at  Rockywold,  or  some  such  place  as 
that,  I  says  to  myself,  "  Shorty,"  says  I,  "  you  stick 
to  the  physical-culture  game  and  whittle  out  the 
by-plays." 

That's  just  what  I  was  doin',  too,  when  an  A.D.T. 
shows  up  with  a  prepaid  josh  from  Pinckney, 
givin'  me  a  special  invite  to  run  out  and  help  'em 
celebrate. 


SHORTY  McCABE  199 

"Any  come-back?"  says  the  boy. 

"No,  sonny,"  says  I;  "you  can  cut  the  wire." 

Say,  Pinckney  means  all  right,  and  he's  done  me 
some  good  turns;  but  that  don't  put  me  in  his 
class,  does  it?  Nay,  nay,  says  I.  Here's  one 
dinner  party  that  I  ducks.  And  with  that  I  gets 
busy  on  one  of  my  reg'lars  who's  bein'  trained  to 
go  against  two  months  of  foreign  coo  kin'.  I 
hadn't  more'n  finished  with  him,  though,  when 
there  comes  another  yellow  envelop.  This  one 
was  from  Sadie,  and  it  was  a  hurry  call.  She 
didn't  say  much;  but  I  could  see  heel-prints  of 
trouble  all  over  it. 

"Me  for  Rockywold,"  says  I,  chuckin'  a  collar  in 
a  suit-case  and  grabbin'  a  time-table  off  the  rack. 

Yes,  that  was  different.  Maybe  I'm  a  jay  to  cast 
myself  for  any  such  part;  but  since  Sadie  an'  me 
had  that  little  reunion,  I've  kind  of  felt  that  sooner 
or  later  she  might  be  let  in  for  a  mix-up  where  I'd 
come  in  handy,  and  when  it  was  pulled  off  I  wanted 
to  be  within  hail. 

Course,  I  wasn't  layin'  out  no  hero  act;  like 
showin'  up  with  a  can  of  gasolene  just  as  the  tank 
ran  dry /or  battin'  the  block  off'm  a  villyun  in  a 
dress  suit.  I  was  just  willin'  to  hang  around  on 
the  edges  and  make  myself  useful  generally.  Not 
that  I'm  followin'  the  she-male  protectin'  business 
regular.  But  with  Sadie  it's  another  thing.  We 


200  SHORTY  McCABE 

used  to  play  in  the  same  alley,  you  know;  and  she 
don't  forget  it,  even  if  she  has  come  into  a  bunch  of 
green  money  as  big  as  a  haystack. 

She  was  on  hand  when  I  dropped  off  the  smoker, 
sittin'  in  the  Rockywold  station  rig  and  lookin'  for 
me  with  both  eyes.  And  say,  what  a  difference 
it  makes  to  clothes  who  wears  'em! 

"It's  bully  of  you  to  come,  Shorty,"  says  she. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  says  I.  "I  guess  good 
judges  wouldn't  call  it  a  medal  play.  What's 
loose?" 

"Buddy,"  says  she. 

For  a  minute  I  was  lost,  until  she  asks  if  I  don't 
remember  the  youngster.  "Oh,  sure!"  says  I. 
"That  kid  brother  of  yours,  with  the  eighteen- 
karat  ringlets  and  a  girly  kind  of  face?  The  Sisters 
used  to  dress  him  up  in  a  Fauntleroy  suit  for  the 
parochial  school  fair,  and  make  him  look  like  a 
picture  on  an  Easter  card.  Nice,  cute  little  chap, 
eh?" 

"He  was  cute  once — ten  or  twelve  years  ago," 
says  Sadie.  "He  isn't  as  cute  as  he  was.  He 
doesn't  wear  ringlets  now — he  likes  rings  better. 
And  that's  why  I  had  to  send  for  you,  Shorty.  I 
couldn't  tell  anyone  else.  Oh,  the  little  wretch! 
If  it  wasn't  for  mother  I'd  cure  him  of  a  lot  of 
things." 

Well,  we  had  some  family  history  on  the  way 


SHORTY  McCABE  201 

out,  beginnin'  with  the  way  Buddy'd  been  spoiled 
at  home,  takin'  in  a  few  of  the  scrapes  Sadie  had 
helped  him  out  of,  and  endin'  with  his  blowin' 
in  at  Rockywold  without  waitin'  for  a  bid  from 
anyone.  Seems  he'd  separated  himself  from  the 
last  stake  Sadie  had  handed  out — nothin'  new, 
same  old  fool  games — and  now  he  wanted  a  refill, 
just  as  a  loan,  until  he  could  play  a  tip  he'd  got 
from  a  gent  he'd  met  in  a  beanery. 

"  And  I  just  wouldn't  stand  for  that,"  says  Sadie. 
"  Those  bookmakers  are  nothing  but  swindlers, 
anyway.  I  know,  because  I  bet  ten  dollars  on  a 
race  once,  and  didn't  win." 

Say,  I  had  a  lithograph  of  Buddy  and  his  beanery 
tip  goin'  up  against  an  argument  like  that.  Of 
course  it  wa'n't  more'n  two  minutes  before  Sadie'd 
got  her  Sullivan  up.  She  offered  Buddy  his 
choice  between  a  railroad  ticket  home  to  mother, 
or  nothing  at  all.  Buddy  wouldn't  arbitrate  on 
those  lines.  He  said  he  was  a  desperate  man,  and 
that  she'd  be  sorry  before  night.  Sadie'd  heard 
that  before;  so  she  just  laughed  and  said  the 
steam-car  ticket  offer  would  be  held  open  until 
night. 

She  didn't  see  anything  more  of  Buddy  for  a 
couple  of  hours,  and  then  she  caught  him  as  he 
came  up  from  the  billiard-room.  Bern'  an  expert 
on  such  symptoms,  she  knew  why  he  talked  like 


202  SHORTY  McCABE 

his  mouth  was  full  of  cotton,  but  she  couldn't 
account  for  the  wad  of  bills  he  shook  at  her. 
Buddy  could.  He'd  run  across  a  young  English- 
man down  there  who  thought  he  could  handle  a 
cue.  Buddy  had  bet  hot  air  against  real  money, 
and  trimmed  his  man. 

"That  wasn't  the  worst  of  it,  though,"  said 
Sadie.  "  After  I  had  got  him  up  to  my  rooms  he 
pulled  out  the  money  again,  to  count  it  over, 
and  out  came  a  three-inch  marquise  ring — an  opal 
set  with  diamonds — that  I  knew  the  minute  I  put 
my  eyes  on  it.  There  were  her  initials  on  the 
inside,  too.  Oh,  no  one  but  Mrs.  Purdy  Pell." 

"Tut,  tut!"  says  I.  "You  can  easy  square  it 
with  her." 

"But  that's  just  what  I  can't  do,"  says  Sadie. 
"She  loves  me  about  as  much  as  a  tramp  likes 
work.  She  tells  folks  that  I  make  fools  of  her 
boys.  Her  boys,  mind  you!  She  claims  every 
stray  man  under  twenty-five,  and  when  I  came 
here  she  had  three  of  them  on  the  string.  Goodness 
knows,  I  didn't  want  them!  They're  only  imi- 
tation men,  anyway.  And  it  was  her  ring  that 
Buddy  had  in  his  pocket." 

"Maybe  he  hadn't  lifted  it,"  says  I. 

Sadie  swallowed  a  bit  hard  at  that;  but  she 
raps  out  the  straight  goods.  "Yes,  he  did,"  says 
she.  "He  must  have  sneaked  it  out  of  her  room 


SHORTY  McCABE  203 

as  he  went  down  stairs.  Think  of  it!  Stealing! 
He's  done  a  lot  of  foolish  things  before;  but  I 
didn't  think  he  would  turn  out  a  crook.  The  Lord 
knows  where  he  gets  that  kind  of  blood  from — not 
from  the  Sullivans,  or  the  Scannells,  either.  But 
I  can't  have  him  put  away.  There's  mother. 
And  he  won't  mind  a  thing  I  say.  Now  what 
shall  I  do,  Shorty?" 

"Where's  Buddy  now?"  says  I. 

"Locked  in  my  clothes-closet,  with  his  hands 
tied  and  a  gag  in  his  mouth,"  says  she.  "Oh,  I 
can  handle  him  that  way,  big  as  he  is;  and  I 
wasn't  going  to  take  any  more  chances.  But 
it's  likely  that  Mrs.  Pell  has  missed  her  ring  by 
this  time  and  is  raising  a  howl  about  it.  What's 
to  be  done?" 

Say,  there  was  a  proposition  for  you!  And  me 
just  a  plain,  every-day  mitt  juggler  that  don't 
take  thinkin'  exercises  reg'lar.  "Guess  you've 
pushed  the  wrong  button  this  time,  Sadie,"  says  I. 
"  But  I'll  stay  in  your  corner  till  the  lights  go  out. 
Is  anyone  else  on?" 

"Not  a  soul,"  says  Sadie. 

"That's  some  help,"  says  I.  "First  we'll  have 
a  little  talk  with  Buddy." 

I  couldn't  see  what  good  that  would  do,  but  it 
was  up  to  me  to  make  some  kind  of  a  move. 

When  they'd  landed  us  under  the  porte  cochere 


2«4  SHORTY  McCABE 

— yes,  you'd  call  it  stoppin'  at  the  horse-block — 
I  sails  in  like  I'd  come  alone,  and  hunts  up  Pinck- 
ney. 

"  What's  all  this  about  me  bein'  needed  up  here?  " 
says  I.  "Goin'  to  make  me  Queen  of  the  May?" 

"By  Jove,  Shorty!"  says  he,  "that's  a  clever 
idea.  We'll  do  it." 

"Yes,  you  will— not,"  says  I.  "You'll  cut  it 
out.  I  ain't  no  wine  agent,  and  I  left  me  rag 
doll  to  home;  so  if  there's  any  funny  stunts 
expected,  you  tell  'em  I've  put  on  a  sub.  Oh, 
sure,  I'll  stay  to  dinner,  but  as  for  leadin'  any 
cotillions,  change  the  card." 

He  gave  his  word  they  wouldn't  spring  anything 
like  that  on  me,  and  then  he  called  up  a  waiter  in 
knee  pants,  and  had  him  show  me  up  to  my 
quarters  so  I  could  get  me  gas-light  clothes  on 
before  they  unlocked  the  dinin'-room  doors. 
After  I'd  made  a  quick  shift  I  slid  over  into  the 
next  wing,  followin'  directions,  and  found  Sadie. 

"Mrs.  Pell's  on  the  war-path  already,"  says  she. 
"She's  having  it  out  with  her  maid  now.  Come 
in." 

She'd  dug  Buddy  out  of  the  wardrobe  and  had 
him  propped  up  in  a  corner. 

"Better  unstopper  him  and  take  off  the  band- 
ages," says  I. 

And  say,  he  had  a  lot  of  language  corked  up 


SHORTY  McCABE  205 

inside  of  him.  It  wasn't  very  sisterly,  either, 
and  most  of  it  would  have  sounded  better  at  a 
race-track;  but  I  shut  the  transom  and  motioned 
to  Sadie  to  let  him  spiel  away,  never  chippin'  in 
a  word,  only  standing  one  side  and  lookin'  him 
over. 

So  far  as  the  outside  went  he  was  a  credit  to 
the  family — one  of  these  slim  clean-cut  youngsters, 
with  a  lot  of  curly  red  hair,  pinky-white  cheeks, 
and  a  pair  of  blue  eyes  that  had  nine  kinds  of 
deviltry  in  'em.  I  could  figure  out  how  mother 
might  be  able  not  to  see  anything  but  good  in 
Buddy.  Hanged  if  I  could  get  very  sore  on  him 
myself,  and  knowin'  how  he'd  been  cuttin'  up, 
at  that. 

"Well,"  says  I,  when  he'd  got  out  of  breath 
some,  "feel  any  better,  do  you?" 

"Huh!"  says  he,  givin'  me  a  squint  sideways. 
"Some  cheap  skate  of  a  private  detective,  eh! 
You  can't  throw  a  scare  into  me  that  way,  sis. 
Chase  him  out." 

"Buddy,"  says  I,  "give  up  the  rings." 

"How'd  you  know  there  was  more  than  one?" 
says  he. 

"Give  up,"  says  I,  holdin7  out  me  hand. 

He  did  it,  like  a  little  man.  There  was  two 
besides  the  marquise;  one  an  emerald  as  big  as  a 
lima  bean,  and  the  other  a  solitaire  spark  that 


206  SHORTY  McCABE 

could  have  been  shoved  up  for  three  or  four 
hundred.  You  see,  a  woman  like  Mrs.  Purdy  Pell 
generally  has  a  collection  of  those  things  lyin' 
around  on  her  dressin'-table,  andl  knew  if  Buddy'd 
got  any,  he'd  made  a  haul. 

"I'm  ashamed  of  you,  Buddy,"  says  I. 

"You  needn't  be,"  says  he.  "I  guess  you'd  do 
the  same  if  you  had  a  sister  that  wanted  to  see  you 
starve  in  the  streets.  Oh,  you  needn't  screw 
up  your  eyebrows,  Sadie.  It's  so.  And  if  you 
don't  cough  up  a  thousand  and  let  me  go,  I'll 
swipe  anything  in  sight.  I  can  stand  being 
pinched  if  you  can  afford  to  have  me." 

Sadie  threw  up  her  hands  at  that,  and  began 
walkin'  up  and  down  the  room.  "Do  you  hear 
that?"  says  she.  "That's  the  kind  of  a  brother 
I've  got." 

"It's  something  awful,"  says  I.  "Just  hearin' 
him  talk  makes  me  feel  shivery.  It  beats  the 
band  how  wicked  some  of  these  cigarette  despe- 
rados do  get.  Don't,  Buddy,  or  I'll  faint.  I 
wouldn't  dare  stay  in  the  room  if  your  sister 
wa'n't  handy  to  tie  you  up  again  in  case  you 
started  to  cut  loose." 

"I've  got  a  good  notion  to  push  in  your  face," 
says  he. 

"Don't  pay  any  attention  to  him,  Shorty," 
says  Sadie. 


SHORTY  McCABE  207 

"I  won't,"  says  I;   "but  I'm  scared  stiff." 

Just  about  then,  though,  Buddy  seemed  to 
have  got  a  bulletin  over  a  special  wire.  He  was 
gazin'  at  me  with  his  mouth  open  and  a  pucker 
between  his  eyes.  "What  Shorty?"  says  he. 
"Say,  you  ain't  Shorty  McCabe,  are  you?" 

"Not  to  you,"  says  I.  "I  got  to  draw  the  line 
somewhere,  and  with  bad  men  I  stands  on  my 
dignity.  I'm  Professor  McCabe,  sonny." 

"Holy  cats!"  says  he.  "Honest,  professor,  I 
didn't  mean  a  word  of  it.  I  take  it  all  back.  Why 
say,  I  saw  you  put  out  the  Kangaroo  in  two 
rounds." 

"Then  you've  had  a  liberal  education,"  says  I. 

"Gee!"  says  he,  lettin'  off  some  more  surprise, 
and  bracin'  himself  back  in  the  chair  like  he  was 
afraid  of  falling  off. 

Well  say,  I've  been  rode  to  my  dressin'-room  on 
shoulders,  and  welcomed  home  from  fights  by 
mobs  with  brass  bands;  but  for  a  gen-u-ine 
ovation  I  guess  Buddy's  little  stunt  came  as 
near  bein'  the  real  thing  as  any.  Dewey  comin' 
back  from  the  Philippines,  or  Mr.  Get-There 
Hadley  landin'  in  St.  Louis  with  the  Standard 
Oil  scalps,  wa'n't  in  it  with  me  bein'  discovered 
by  Buddy  Sullivan.  I  couldn't  get  the  key  to 
it  then,  but  I've  mapped  it  out  now.  Most  of 
his  enthusiasm  was  owin'  to  the  fact  that  ever 


2o8  SHORTY  McCABE 

since  he  was  fifteen  Buddy 'd  based  his  claim  to 
bein'  a  real  sport  on  my  havin'  come  from  the 
same  block  as  he  did. 

Anyway,  it  was  a  lightnin'  change.  From 
being  a  holy  terror,  Buddy  calmed  down  to  as 
peaceful  a  young  gent  as  you'd  want  to  meet.  If 
I'd  just  shake  hands  with  him  once  and  call  it 
square,  he'd  follow  any  program  I'd  a  mind  to 
plan  out. 

"Only  don't  let  her  send  me  home  to  maw," 
says  he.  "  Say,  they  get  up  at  six  in  the  morning 
there,  and  if  I  don't  crawl  down  by  seven  maw 
lugs  up  toast  and  eggs,  and  talks  to  me  like  I  was 
a  kid." 

"Well,  where'd  you  like  to  be  shipped?"  says  I. 

"Aw,  come  now,  professor,"  says  he.  "You 
don't  have  to  be  told  that.  There  ain't  but  one 
place  where  a  fellow  like  me  can  really  live.  You 
get  sis  to  put  me  back  on  Broadway  with  a  few 
hundred  in  my  clothes,  and  I'll  kiss  the  Book  that 
she  won't  hear  from  me  for  a  year." 

"But  how  about  this  jewelry-collectin'  fad  of 
yours?"  says  I. 

"Ah,  I  wasn't  going  to  carry  it  off,"  says 
he.  "  I  let  her  see  I  had  it,  on  purpose.  I'll  be 
good." 

Well,  Sadie  was  willin'  to  let  it  go  at  that,  and 
we  was  just  gettin'  this  part  of  the  mix-up  straight- 


SHORTY  McCABE 


209 


ened  out  lovely,  when  there  came  a  rap  at  the 
door. 

"  Quick/'  says  Sadie.  "  They  mustn't  see  Buddy 
or  you  either,  Shorty!" 

So  Buddy  was  pushed  into  the  closet  again,  and 
I  dodges  behind  a  tall  dressin'-mirror  in  the 
corner.  It  was  a  red-eyed  girl  with  lumps  in  her 
throat.  She  said  she  was  Mrs.  Purdy  Pell's  maid. 

"  Mrs.  Pell's  missed  some  rings,"  says  she,  'and 
we've  been  havin'  words  over  it.  I  told  her  there 
was  a  suspicious-looking  young  man  in  the  house 
that  I'd  seen  comin'  out  of  your  rooms  awhile  ago, 
and  I  didn't  know  but  what  you'd  missed  some 
things,  too,  ma'am." 

"Ask  Mrs.  Pell  to  step  over  here  for  a  minute," 
says  Sadie. 

"What's  doing?"  says  I,  after  the  maid  had  left. 

"I  don't  know,"  says  Sadie.  "I've  got  to  give 
that  jewelry  back  to  the  silly  thing  first;  then 
we'll  see." 

So  I  handed  the  trinkets  over,  and  it  wasn't 
long  before  Mrs.  Pell  shows  up.  And  say,  the 
minute  them  two  came  together  the  mercury 
dropped  about  thirty  degrees.  Bein'  behind  the 
glass,  I  couldn't  see;  but  I  could  hear,  and  that 
was  enough. 

"Here  are  your  lost  rings,"  says  Sadie. 

That's  her,  every  tick  of  the  watch.    If  she  was 

14 


210  SHORTY  McCABE 

tackled  by  a  gyasticutus,  she'd  grab  it  by  the 
horns. 

"Oh!"  says  Mrs.  Pell,  gatherin'  'em  in;  "And 
how  does  it  happen  that  you  have  them?" 

"I'll  tell  you  to-morrow,"  says  Sadie. 

"I'd  rather  not  wait  that  long,"  says  Mrs.  Pell. 
"I  prefer  to  know  now." 

"You  ought  to  be  satisfied  to  get  them  back," 
says  Sadie. 

"Perhaps,"  says  Mrs.  Pell;  "but  I'm  just  a 
little  curious  to  know  how  they  got  away.  My 
maid  thinks  the  person  who  took  them  is  still  in 
the  house." 

"If  I  listened  to  all  the  things  my  maid  says — " 
begins  Sadie. 

"There  are  maids  and  maids,"  says  Mrs.  Pell. 
"I  can  trust  mine.  She  saw  the  man.  More 
than  that,  Mrs.  Dipworthy,  she  thinks  he  is  hidden 
in  your  rooms." 

"She  must  have  seen  my  brother,"  says  Sadie, 
"or  Professor  McCabe." 

"It's  quite  possible,"  says  Mrs.  Pell;  "but  I 
shall  insist  on  having  the  officers  sent  for." 

"Why,"  says  Sadie,  "I  might  have  taken  them 
myself,  just  as  a  joke." 

"Indeed!"  says  Mrs.  Pell  in  a  polite  assault-and- 
battery  tone.  "Then  perhaps  you  will  confess  as 
much  to  the  other  guests?  Will  you?" 


SHORTY  McCABE  211 

And  that  was  a  facer  for  Sadie.  She'd  been 
keeping  a  stiff  lip  up  to  this,  but  she  came  to  the 
scratch  wabbly  in  her  voice.  "You  wouldn't 
want  me  to  do  that,  would  you?"  says  she. 

"In  justice  to  my  maid,  I  must,"  says  Mrs.  Pell. 

"Well,"  says  Sadie,  "if  you're  mean  enough  for 
that,  I  suppose  I — " 

But,  say,  I  couldn't  stay  under  cover  any  longer, 
with  her  bein'  pushed  down  the  chute  in  that  style. 
I  was  wise  to  her  game  all  right.  She  meant  to 
stand  up  and  take  all  that  was  coming,  even  if  it 
put  her  down  and  out,  just  to  keep  the  hooks  off 
that  kid  brother  of  hers.  And  me  loafin'  back  of 
the  ropes  with  me  hands  in  me  pockets!  I'd  been 
a  welcher,  wouldn't  I? 

"Did  I  hear  my  cue?"  says  I,  steppin'  out  into 
the  lime-light. 

It  was  a  tableau,  for  fair.  Me  and  Mrs.  Purdy 
Pell  didn't  do  anything  but  swap  looks  for  a 
minute  or  so.  I  can't  say  just  how  pleased  she 
was,  but  I've  had  better  views.  She  wasn't  any 
dainty,  lily-of-the-valley  sort.  She  was  a  good 
deal  of  a  cabbage  rose,  I  should  say,  and  carried 
more  or  less  weight  for  age.  She  had  an  arm  on 
her  like  a  fore-quarter  of  beef.  I  don't  wonder 
that  Purdy  Pell  skipped  to  Europe  and  didn't 
put  in  any  answer  when  the  proceedin's  came  up. 

"Are  you  the  one?"  says  she. 


212  SHORTY  McCABE 

"No,  he  isn't,"  says  Sadie,  speakin'  up  brisk. 

" That's  right,"  says  I;  "but  it  was  me  brought 
your  ringer  sparks  back  to  light,  ma'am." 

"And  where  did  you  find  them?"  says  Mrs.  Pell, 
turnin'  the  third-degree  stare  on  me. 

"That's  a  professional  secret,"  says  I,  "which  I 
can't  give  up  just  yet." 

"Oh,  you  can't !"  says  she.  "This  is  interest- 
ing." 

And  with  that  she  begins  to  size  us  up,  one  after 
the  other.  Oh,  she  had  us  tied  to  the  post,  with 
nothin'  to  do  but  chuck  the  knives  at  us.  For  a 
gallery  play,  it  was  the  punkiest  I  ever  put  up. 
Here  I'd  come  splashin'  in  with  both  feet,  like  an 
amateur  life-saver  goin'  to  the  rescue,  and  I  hadn't 
done  anything  but  raise  the  tide. 

Sadie  didn't  have  a  word  to  say.  She  was  just 
bitin'  her  lip,  and  gettin'  white  about  the  mouth 
from  the  mad  in  her.  And  say,  maybe  Her 
Stoutness  didn't  enjoy  watchin'  us  squirm.  She 
was  gettin'  even  for  every  look  one  of  her  Willie 
boys  had  ever  wasted  on  Sadie. 

"  We'll  see  if  you  two  can  be  induced  to  confide 
your  precious  secret  to  the  police,"  says  she.  "I 
mean  to  find  out  who  stole  my  rings." 

She  hadn't  more  than  sent  in  that  shot  before 
the  closet  door  opens,  and  Buddy  comes  out, 
blinkin'  like  a  bat. 


SHORTY  McCABE  213 

"It's  all  over,  ain't  it?"  says  he. 

"It  is  now,"  says  I,  and  looks  to  see  Mrs.  Purdy 
Pell  begin  to  holler:  "Stop  thief!" 

But  it  was  a  case  of  being  off  the  alley  again. 
Say,  I'm  glad  I  wasn't  backin'  my  guesses  with 
good  money  that  night,  or  I'd  come  home  with 
my  pockets  wrong  side  out.  Ever  see  a  hundred- 
and-eighty-pound  fairy  with  a  double  chin  turn 
kittenish?  That  was  her. 

"Why,  Mr.  Sullivan!"  she  gurgles,  thro  win' 
him  a  Julia  Marlowe  goo-goo  glance. 

"Hello,  Dimples!"  says  Buddy.  "Oh,  they 
were  your  rings,  were  they?  Then  it's  all  right. 
I  just  borrowed  'em  to  scare  sister  into  a  cat  fit 
and  make  her  open  up — just  for  a  josh,  you  know." 

"Why,  why!"  says  Mrs.  Pell,  lookin'  twisted, 
"is  Mrs.  Dipworthy  your  sister?" 

"Sure,"  says  Buddy.  "But  say,  Dimples, 
you're  the  very  girl  I  was  wanting  to  see  most. 
I've  got  another  sure  thing,  good  as  a  title  guaran- 
tee, for  the  Croton  stakes,  and  if  you'll  back  it  for 
me  we'll  make  a  killing.  How  about  it,  eh?" 

"Oh,  you  reckless  boy,"  says  Mrs.  Pell,  tapping 
him  on  the  cheek.  "  But  you  did  give  me  such  a 
lovely  tip  at  the  Aqueduct,  and — and  we'll  see. 
Come,  I  want  to  talk  to  you,"  and  she  put  out  a 
wing  for  him  to  take. 

As  they  drifted  down  towards  the  terrace  Buddy 


2i4  SHORTY  McCABE 

turns  and  gives  us  the  sassy  wink  over  his  shoulder. 

"Looks  like  we'd  lost  our  job,  Sadie,"  says  I. 

"The  silly  old  moss-agate!"  says  Sadie. 

Then  I  goes  down  and  reports  to  Pinckney,  and 
puts  in  the  rest  of  the  evenin'  bein'  introduced  as 
the  gent  that  set  the  Baron  Patchouli  up  in  the 
shoe-string  business.  I  felt  like  I'd  opened  up  a 
jack-pot  on  a  four-flush,  but  Pinckney  and  the 
rest  seemed  to  be  having  a  good  time,  so  I  stuck 
it  out.  In  the  morning  Buddy  goes  along  back 
to  town  with  me. 

"Say,  professor,"  says  he,  pat  tin'  a  roll  of 
twenties  in  his  trousers  pocket,  "I  wouldn't  pass 
this  along  to  anyone  else,  but  if  you  want  to 
connect  with  a  hatful  of  easy  coin,  just  plunge  on 
Candy  Boy." 

"  That's  your  beanery  tip,  is  it?"  says  I.  "  Much 
obliged,  Buddy,  but  I  guess  after  the  bookies  get 
all  you  and  Mrs.  Pell  are  goin'  to  throw  at  'em 
they  won't  need  mine." 

See?  It  was  up  to  me  to  push  home  a  great 
moral  lesson,  and  I  done  my  best.  But  what's  the 
use?  Next  mornin'  I  takes  up  the  paper  and  reads 
how  Candy  Boy  wins,  heads  apart. 


CHAPTER  X 

BUT  say,  I  guess  Buddy'll  work  out  all  right. 
There's  good  stuff  in  him.  Anyways,  I  ain't  losin' 
my  eyesight,  tryin'  to  follow  his  curves.  And  my 
date  book's  been  full  lately.  That's  the  way  I 
like  it.  If  you  know  how  to  take  things  there's  a 
whole  lot  of  fun  in  just  bein'  alive;  ain't  there? 
Now  look  at  the  buffo  combination  I've  been  up 
against. 

First  off  I  meets  Jarvis — you  know,  Mr.  Jarvis  of 
Blenmont,  who's  billed  to  marry  that  English  girl, 
Lady  Evelyn,  next  month.  Well,  Jarvis  he  was  all 
worked  up.  Oh,  you  couldn't  guess  it  in  a  week. 
It  was  an  awful  thing  that  happened  to  him.  Just 
as  he's  got  his  trunk  packed  for  England,  where  the 
knot-tyin'  is  to  take  place,  he  gets  word  that  some 
old  lady  that  was  second  cousin  to  his  mother,  or 
something  like  that,  has  gone  and  died  and  left  him 
all  her  property. 

"Real  thoughtless  of  her,  wa'n't  it?"  says  I. 

"Well,"  says  Jarvis,  lookin'  kind  of  foolish,  "I 
expect  she  meant  well  enough.  I  don't  mind  the 
bonds,  and  that  sort  of  thing,  but  there's  this  Night- 
ingale Cottage.  Now,  what  am  I  to  do  with  that?" 

"  Raise  nightingales  for  the  trade,"  says  I. 

Jarvis  ain't  one  of  the  joshin'  kind,  though,  same 


2i6  SHORTY  McCABE 

as  Pinckiicy.  He  had  this  weddin'  business  on  his 
mind,  and  there  wa'n't  much  room  for  anything 
else.  Seems  the  old  lady  who'd  quit  livin'  was  a 
relative  he  didn't  know  much  about. 

"I  remember  seeing  her  only  once,"  says  Jar  vis, 
and  then  I  was  a  little  chap.  Perhaps  that's  why 
I  was  such  a  favorite  of  hers.  She  always  sent  me 
a  prayer-book  every  Christmas." 

"Must  have  thought  you  was  hard  on  prayer- 
books,"  says  I.  "  She  wa'n't  batty,  was  she?  " 

Jarvis  wouldn't  say  that;  but  he  didn't  deny 
that  there  might  have  been  a  few  cobwebs  in  the 
belfry.  Aunt  Amelia — that's  what  he  called  her — 
had  lived  by  herself  for  so  long,  and  had  coaxed  up 
such  a  case  of  nerves,  that  there  was  no  tellin'. 
The  family  didn't  even  know  she  was  abroad  until 
they  heard  she'd  died  there. 

"You  see,"  says  Jarvis,  "the  deuce  of  it  is  the 
cottage  is  just  as  she  stepped  out  of  it,  full  of  a  lot 
of  old  truck  that  I've  either  got  to  sell  or  burn,  I 
suppose.  And  it's  a  beastly  nuisance." 

"It's  a  shame,"  says  I.  "But  where  is  this 
Nightingale  Cottage?" 

"  Why,  it's  in  Primrose  Park,  up  in  Westchester 
County,"  says  he. 

With  that  I  pricks  up  my  ears.  You  know  I've 
been  puttin'  my  extra-long  green  in  pickle  for  the 
last  few  years,  layin'  for  a  chance  to  place  'em 


SHORTY  McCABE  217 

where  I  could  turn  'em  over  some  day  and  count 
both  sides.  And  Westchester  sounded  right. 

"Say,"  says  I,  leadin'  him  over  to  the  telephone 
booth,  "you  sit  down  there  and  ring  up  some  real- 
estate  guy  out  in  Primrose  Park  and  get  a  bid  for 
that  place.  It'll  be  about  half  or  two-thirds  what 
it's  worth.  I'll  give  you  that,  and  ten  per  cent, 
more  on  account  of  the  fixin's.  Is  it  a  go?" 

Was  it?  Mr.  Jarvis  had  central  and  was  callin' 
up  Primrose  Park  before  I  gets  through,  and  inside 
of  an  hour  I'm  a  taxpayer.  I've  made  big  lumps 
of  money  quicker'n  that,  but  I  never  spent  such  a 
chunk  of  it  so  swift  before.  But  Jarvis  went  off 
with  his  mind  easy,  and  I  was  satisfied.  In  the 
evenin'  I  dropped  around  to  see  the  Whaleys. 

"Dennis,  you  low-county  bog-trotter/'  says  I, 
"about  all  I've  heard  out  of  you  since  I  was  knee 
high  was  how  you  was  achin'  to  quit  the  elevator 
and  get  back  to  diggin'  and  cuttin'  grass,  same's 
you  used  to  do  on  the  old  sod.  Now  here's  a 
chance  to  make  good." 

Well,  say,  that  was  the  only  time  I  ever  talked 
ten  minutes  with  Dennis  Whaley  without  bein'* 
blackguarded.  He'd  been  fired  off  the  elevator  the 
week  before  and  had  been  job-huntin'  ever  since. 
As  for  Mother  Whaley,  when  she  saw  a  chance  to 
shake  three  rooms  back  and  a  fire-escape  for  a 
place  where  the  trees  has  leaves  on  'em,  she  up 


2x8  SHORTY  McCABE 

and  cried  into  the  corned  beef  and  cabbage,  just 
for  joy. 

"I'll  send  the  keys  in  the  morning"  says  I. 
"  Then  you  two  pack  up  and  go  out  there  to  Night- 
ingale Cottage  and  open  her  up.  If  it's  fit  to  live  in, 
and  you  don't  die  of  lonesomeness,  maybe  I'll  run 
up  once  in  a  while  of  a  Sunday  to  look  you  over." 

You  see,  I  thought  it  would  be  a  bright  scheme  to 
hang  onto  the  place  for  a  year  or  so,  before  I  tries  to 
unload.  That  gives  the  Whaleys  what  they've 
been  wishin'  for,  and  me  a  chance  to  do  the  week- 
end act  now  and  then.  Course,  I  wa'n't  lookin' 
for  no  complications.  But  they  come  along,  all 
right. 

It  was  on  a  Saturday  afternoon  that  I  took  the 
plunge.  You  know  how  quick  this  little  old  town 
can  warm  up  when  she  starts.  We'd  had  the  Studio 
fans  goin'  all  the  mornin',  and  the  first  shirtwaist 
lads  was  paradin'  across  Forty-second  street  with 
their  coats  off,  and  Swifty'd  made  tracks  for 
Coney  Island,  when  I  remembers  Primrose  Park. 

I'd  passed  through  in  expresses  often  enough,  so 
I  didn't  have  to  look  it  up  on  the  map ;  but  that  was 
about  all.  When  I'd  spoiled  the  best  part  of  an 
hour  on  a  local  full  of  commuters  and  low-cut  high- 
brows, who  killed  time  playin'  whist  and  cussin'  the 
road,  I  was  dumped  down  at  a  cute  little  station 
about  big  enough  for  a  lemonade  stand.  As  the  cars 


SHORTY  McCABE 


219 


went  off  I  drew  in  a  long  breath.  Say,  I'd  got  off 
just  in  time  to  escape  bein'  carried  into  Connec- 
ticut. 

I  jumps  into  a  canopy- top  surrey  that  looks  like 
it  had  been  stored  in  an  open  lot  all  winter,  and  asks 
the  driver  if  he  knows  where  Nightingale  Cottage  is. 

"Sure  thing!"  says  he.  "That's  the  place 
Shorty  McCabe's  bought." 

"Do  tell!"  says  I.  "Well,  cart  me  out  to  the 
front  gate  and  put  me  off." 

It  was  a  nice  ride.  If  it  had  been  a  mile  longer 
I'd  had  facts  enough  for  a  town  history.  Drivin' 
a  depot  carriage  was  just  a  side  issue  with  that 
Primrose  blossom.  Conversin'  was  his  long  suit. 
He  tore  off  information  by  the  yard,  and  slung  it 
over  the  seat-back  at  me  like  one  of  these  mega- 
phone lecturers  on  the  rubber-neck  wagons. 
Accordin'  to  him,  Aunt  'Melie  had  been  a  good  deal 
of  a  she-hermit. 

"Why,"  says  he,  "Major  Curtis  Binger  told  me 
himself  that  in  the  five  years  he  lived  neighbors  to 
her  he  hadn't  seen  her  more'n  once  or  twice.  They 
say  she  hadn't  been  out  of  her  yard  for  ten  years  up 
to  the  time  she  went  abroad  for  her  health  and  died 
of  it." 

"Anyone  that  could  live  in  this  town  that  long 
and  not  die,  couldn't  have  tried  very  hard,"  says  I. 
"Who's  this  Major  Binger?" 


220  SHORTY  McCABE 

"Oh,  he's  a  retired  army  officer,  the  major  is; 
widower,  with  two  daughters/'  says  he. 

"Singletons?"  says  I. 

"Yep,  and  likely  to  stay  so,"  says  he. 

About  then  he  turns  in  between  a  couple  of  fancy 
stone  gate-posts,  twists  around  a  cracked  bluestone 
drive,  and  lands  me  at  the  front  steps  of  Nightin- 
gale Cottage.  For  the  kind,  it  wa'n't  so  bad — one 
of  those  squatty  bay-windowed  affairs,  with  a  roof 
like  a  toboggan  chute,  a  porch  that  did  almost  a 
whole  lap  around  outside,  and  a  cobblestone  chim- 
ney that  had  vines  growin'  clear  to  the  top.  And 
sure  enough,  there  was  Dennis  Whaley  with  his 
rake,  comin'  as  near  a  grin  as  he  knew  how. 

Well,  he  has  me  in  tow  in  about  a  minute,  and  I 
makes  a  personally  conducted  tour  of  me  estate. 
Say,  all  I  thought  I  was  gettin'  was  a  couple  of 
buildin'  lots;  but  I'll  be  staggered  if  there  wa'n't  a 
slice  of  ground  most  as  big  as  Madison  Square  Park, 
with  trees,  and  shrubbery,  and  posy  beds,  and 
dinky  little  paths  loopin'  the  loop  all  around.  Out 
back  was  a  stable  and  goosb'ry  bushes  and  a  truck 
garden. 

"How's  thim  for  cabbages?"  says  Dennis. 

"  They  look  more  like  boutonniers,"  says  I.  But 
he  goes  on  to  tell  as  how  they'd  just  been  set  out 
and  wouldn't  be  life-size  till  fall.  Then  he  shows 
me  rows  that  he  says  was  goin'  to  be  praties  and 


SHORTY  McCABE 


221 


beans  and  so  on,  and  he's  as  proud  of  the  whole 
shootin'-match  as  if  he'd  done  a  miracle. 

When  we  got  around  to  the  front  again,  where 
Dennis  has  laid  out  a  pansy  harp,  I  sees  a  little 
gatherin'  over  in  front  of  the  cottage  next  door. 
There  was  three  or  four  gents,  and  six  or  eight 
women-folks.  They  was  lookin'  my  way,  and 
talkin'  all  to  once. 

"Hello!"  says  I.  "The  neighbors  seem  to  be 
holdin'  a  convention.  Wonder  if  they're  plannin' 
to  count  me  in?" 

I  ain't  more'n  got  that  out  before  one  of  the 
bunch  cuts  loose  and  heads  for  me.  He  was  a  nice- 
lookin'  old  duck,  with  a  pair  of  white  Chaunceys 
and  a  frosted  chin-splitter.  He  stepped  out  brisk 
and  swung  his  cane  like  he  was  on  parade.  He  was 
got  up  in  white  flannels  and  a  square-topped  Pana- 
ma, and  he  had  the  complexion  of  a  good  liver. 

"I  expect  that  this  is  Mr.  McCabe,"  says  he. 

"You're  a  good  guesser,"  says  I.  "Come  up  on 
the  front  stoop  and  sit  by." 

"My  name,"  says  he,  "is  Binger,  Curtis  Binger." 

"What,  Major  Binger,  late  U.  S.  A.?"  says  I. 
"  The  man  that  did  the  stunt  at  the  battle  of  What- 
d'ye-call-it?" 

"Mission  Ridge,  sir,"  says  he,  throwin'  out  his 
chest. 

"Sure!    That  was  the  place,"  says  I.     "Well, 


222  SHORTY  McCABE 

well!  Who'd  think  it?  I'm  proud  to  know  you. 
Put  'er  there." 

With  that  I  had  him  goin'.  He  was  up  in  the 
air,  and  before  he'd  got  over  it  I'd  landed  him  in  a 
porch  rocker  and  chased  Dennis  in  to  dig  a  box  of 
Fumadoras  out  of  my  suit-case. 

"Ahem,"  says  the  Major,  clearin'  his  speech 
tubes,  "I  came  over,  Mr.  McCabe,  on  rather  a 
delicate  errand." 

"  If  you're  out  of  butter,  or  want  to  touch  me  for 
a  drawin'  of  tea,  speak  right  up,  Major,"  says  I. 
"The  pantry's  yours." 

"Thank  you,"  says  he;  "but  it's  nothing  like 
that;  nothing  at  all,  sir.  I  came  over  as  the 
representative  of  several  citizens  of  Primrose  Park, 
to  inquire  if  it  is  your  intention  to  reside  here." 

"Oh!"  says  I.  "You  want  to  know  if  I'll  join 
the  gang?  Well,  seein'  as  you've  put  it  up  to  me 
so  urgent,  I  don't  care  if  I  do.  Course  I  can't  sign 
as  a  reg'lar,  this  bein'  my  first  jab  at  the  simple 
life ;  but  if  you  can  stand  for  the  punk  performance 
I'll  make  at  progressive  euchre  and  croquet,  you 
can  put  me  on  the  Saturday  night  sub  list,  for  a 
while,  anyway." 

Now,  say,  I  was  layin'  out  to  do  the  neighborly 
for  the  best  that  was  in  me;  but  it  seemed  to  hit 
the  Major  wrong.  He  turned  about  two  shades 
pinker,  coughed  once  or  twice,  and  then  got  a  fresh 


SHORTY  McCABE 


223 


hold.  "  I'm  afraid  you  fail  to  grasp  the  situation, 
Mr.  McCabe,"  says  he.  "You  see,  we  lead  a  very 
quiet  life  here  in  Primrose  Park,  a  very  domestic 
life.  As  for  myself,  I  have  two  daughters — " 

"Chic,  chic,  Major!"  says  I,  pokin'  him  gentle  in 
the  ribs  with  me  thumb.  "Don't  you  try  to  sick 
any  girls  on  me,  or  I'll  take  to  the  tall  timber.  I'm 
no  lady's  man,  not  a  little  bit." 

Then  the  explosion  came.  For  a  minute  I 
thought  one  of  them  'Frisco  ague  spells  had  come 
east.  The  Major  turns  plum  color,  blows  up  his 
cheeks,  and  bugs  his  eyes  out.  When  the  language 
flows  it  was  like  turnin'  on  a  fire-pressure  hydrant. 
An  assistant  district  attorney  summin'  up  for  the 
State  in  a  murder  trial  didn't  have  a  look-in  with 
the  Major.  What  did  I  mean — me,  a  rough-house 
scrapper  from  the  red-light  section — by  buttin' 
into  a  peaceful  comnuinity  and  insultin'  the  oldest 
inhabitants?  Didn't  I  have  no  sense  of  decency? 
Did  I  suppose  respectable  people  were  goin'  to 
stand  for  such? 

Honest/that  was  the  worst  jolt  I  ever  had.  All 
I  could  do  was  to  sit  there  with  my  mouth  ajar 
and  watch  him  prancin'  up  and  down,  handin'  me 
the  layout. 

"Say,"  says  I,  after  a  bit,  "you  ain't  got  me 
mixed  up  with  Mock  Duck,  or  Paddy  the  Gouge, 
or  Kangaroo  Mike,  or  any  of  that  crowd,  have  you?  " 


224  SHORTY  McCABE 

"You're  known  as  Shorty  McCabe,  aren't  you?" 
says  he. 

"Guilty,"  says  I. 

"Then  there's  no  mistake,"  says  he.  "What 
will  you  take,  cash  down,  for  this  property,  and 
clear  out  now?" 

"Say,  Major,"  says  I,  "do  you  think  it  would 
blight  the  buds  or  poison  the  air  much  if  I  hung  on 
till  Monday  morning?  That  is,  unless  you've  got 
the  tar  all  hot  and  the  rail  ready?" 

That  fetched  a  grunt  out  of  him.  "  All  we  desire 
to  do,  sir,"  says  he,  "is  to  maintain  the  respecta- 
bility of  the  neighborhood." 

"  Do  the  other  folks  over  there  feel  the  same  way 
about  me?"  says  I. 

"Naturally,"  says  he. 

"  Well,"  says  I, "  I  don't  mind  telling  you,  Major, 
that  you've  thrown  the  hooks  into  me  good  an' 
plenty,  and  it  looks  like  I'd  have  to  make  a  new 
book.  I  didn't  come  out  here  to  break  up  any 
peaceful  community;  but  before  I  changes  my 
program  I'll  have  to  sleep  on  it.  Suppose  you 
slide  over  again  some  time  to-morrow,  when  your 
collar  don't  fit  so  tight,  and  then  we'll  see  if  there's 
anything  to  arbitrate/' 

"Very  well,"  says  he,  does  a  salute  to  the  colors, 
and  marches  back  stiff-kneed  to  tell  his  crowd  how 
he'd  read  the  riot  act  to  me. 

Now,  say,  I  ain't  one  of  the  kind  to  lose  sleep  be- 


SHORTY  McCABE 


225 


cause  the  conductor  speaks  rough  when  I  asks  for  a 
transfer.  I  generally  takes  what's  comin'  and 
grins.  But  this  time  I  wa'n't  half  so  joyful  as  I 
might  have  been.  Even  the  sight  of  Mother 
Whaley's  hot  biscuits  and  hearin'  her  singin' 
"Cushla  Mavourneen"  in  the  kitchen  couldn't 
chirk  me  up.  I'd  been  keen  for  lookin'  the  house 
over  and  seein'  what  I'd  got  in  the  grab;  but  it  was 
all  off.  Course  I  knew  I  had  the  rights  of  the  thing. 
I'd  put  down  me  good  money,  and  there  wa'n't 
any  rules  that  could  make  me  pull  it  out.  But 
I've  lived  quite  some  years  without  shovin'  in 
where  I  knew  I'd  get  the  frigid  countenance,  and  I 
didn't  like  the  idea  of  beginnin'  now. 

I  couldn't  go  back  on  my  record,  either.  In  my 
time  I've  stood  up  in  the  ring  and  put  out  my  man 
for  two  thirds  of  the  gate  receipts.  I  ain't  so  proud 
of  that  now  as  I  was  once;  but  I  ain't  never  had 
any  call  to  be  ashamed  of  the  way  I  done  it.  What's 
more,  no  soubrette  ever  had  a  chance  to  call  her- 
self Mrs.  Shorty  McCabe,  and  I  never  let  'em  put 
my  name  over  the  door  of  any  Broadway  jag  parlor. 

You  got  to  let  every  man  frame  up  his  own  argu- 
ment, though.  If  these  Primrose  Parkers  had 
listed  me  for  a  tough  citizen,  that  had  come  out  to 
smash  crockery  and  keep  the  town  constable  busy, 
it  wa'n't  my  cue  to  hold  any  debate.  All  the  cam- 
paign I  could  figure  out  was  to  back  into  the  wings 
15 


226  SHORTY  McCABE 

and  sell  to  some  well-behaved  stock-broker  or  life- 
insurance  grafter. 

It  was  goin'  to  be  tough  on  the  Whaleys,  though. 
I  didn't  let  on  to  Dennis,  and  after  supper  we  sat 
on  the  back  steps  while  he  smoked  his  cutty  and 
gassed  away  about  the  things  he  was  goin'  to  raise, 
and  how  the  flower-beds  would  look  in  a  month  or 
so.  About  nine  o'clock  he  shows  me  a  place  where 
I  can  turn  in,  and  I  listens  to  the  roosters  crowin' 
most  of  the  night. 

Next  mornin'  I  had  Dennis  get  me  a  Sunday 
paper,  and  after  I'd  read  the  sportin'  notes,  I  turns 
to  the  suburban  real  estate  ads.  "  Why  not  own  a 
home?"  most  of  'em  asks.  "I  know  the  answer  to 
that,"  says  I.  And  say,  a  Luna  Park  Zulu  that 
had  strayed  into  young  Rockefeller's  Bible  class 
would  have  felt  about  as  much  at  home  as  I  did 
there  on  my  own  porch.  The  old  Major  was  over 
on  his  porch,  walkin'  up  and  down  like  he  was  doin' 
guard  duty,  and  once  in  a  while  I  could  see  some  of 
the  women-folks  takin'  a  careful  squint  at  me  from 
behind  a  window  blind.  If  I'm  ever  quarantined, 
it  won't  be  any  new  sensation. 

It  wasn't  exactly  a  weddin'  breakfast  kind  of  a 
time  I  was  havin';  but  I  didn't  dodge  it.  I  was 
just  lettin'  it  soak  in,  "for  the  good  of  me  soul,"  as 
Father  Connolly  used  to  say,  when  I  sees  a  pair  of 
overfed  blacks,  hitched  to  a  closed  carriage,  switch 


SHORTY  McCABE 


227 


in  from  the  pike  and  make  for  the  Major's.  "  Com- 
pany for  dinner,"  says  I.  "  That's  nice." 

I  didn't  get  anything  but  a  back  view  as  he 
climbed  out  on  the  off  side  and  was  led  in  by  the 
Major;  but  you  couldn't  fool  me  on  them  short- 
legged,  baggy-kneed  pants,  or  that  black  griddle- 
cake  bonnet.  It  was  my  little  old  Bishop,  that  I 
keeps  the  fat  off  from  with  the  medicine-ball  work. 

" Lucky  he  didn't  see  me,"  says  I,  "or  he'd 
hollered  out  and  queered  himself  with  the  whole  of 
Primrose  Park." 

I  was  figurin'  on  fadin'  away  to  the  other  side  of 
the  house  before  he  showed  up  again;  but  I  didn't 
hurry  about  it,  and  when  I  looks  up  again  there  was 
the  Bishop,  with  them  fat  little  fingers  of  his  stuck 
out,  and  a  three-inch  grin  on  his  face,  pikin'  across 
the  road  right  for  me.  He'd  come  out  to  wig-wag 
his  driver,  and,  gettin'  his  eyes  on  me,  he  waddles 
right  over.  I  tried  to  give  him  the  wink  and  shoo 
him  off,  but  it  was  no  go. 

"Why,  my  dear  professor!"  says  he,  walkin'  up 
and  givin'  me  the  inside-brother  grip  with  one  hand 
and  the  old-college-chum  shoulder-pat  with  the 
other. 

I  squints  across  the  way,  and  there  was  the  Major 
and  the  girls,  catchin'  their  breath  and  takin'  it  all 
in,  so  I  sees  it's  no  use  throwin'  a  bluff. 

"How's  the  Bishop?"  says  I.    "You've  made  a 


228  SHORTY  McCABE 

bad  break;  but  I  guess  it's  a  bit  too  late  to 
hedge." 

He  only  chuckles,  like  he  always  does.  "Your 
figures  of  speech,  professor,  are  too  subtle  for  me,  as 
usual.  However,  I  suppose  you  are  as  glad  to  see 
me  as  I  am  to  find  you.'7 

"  Just  what  I  was  meanin'  to  spring  next,"  says  I, 
pullin'  up  a  rocker  for  him. 

We  chins  awhile  there,  and  the  Bishop  tells  me 
how's  he  been  out  to  lay  a  cornerstone,  and  thought 
he'd  drop  in  on  his  old  friend,  Major  Binger. 

"Well,  well,  what  a  charming  place  you  have 
here!"  says  he.  "You  must  take  me  all  over  it,  pro- 
fessor. I  want  to  see  if  you've  shown  as  good  taste 
on  the  inside  as  you  apparently  have  on  the  out." 

And  before  I  has  time  to  say  a  word  about  Jarvis's 
Aunt  'Melie,  he  has  me  by  the  arm  and  we're  headed 
for  the  parlor.  I  hadn't  even  opened  the  door  be- 
fore, but  we  blazes  right  in,  runs  up  the  shades, 
throws  open  the  shutters,  and  stands  by  for  a  look. 

Say,  it  was  worth  it !  That  was  the  most  ladyfied 
room  I  ever  put  me  foot  in.  First  place,  I  never  see 
so  many  crazy  lookin'  little  chairs,  or  bow-legged 
tables,  or  fancy  tea-cups  before  in  my  life.  There 
wa'n't  a  thing  you  could  sit  on  without  havin'  to 
call  the  upholstery  man  in  afterward.  Even  the  gilt 
sofa  looked  like  it  ought  to  have  been  in  a  picture. 

But  what  had  me  button-eyed  was  the  wall  deco- 


SHORTY  McCABE  229 

rations.  If  I  hadn't  been  ridin'  on  the  sprinker 
for  so  long  I'd  thought  it  was  time  for  me  to  hunt 
a  D.  T.  institute  right  then.  First  off  I  couldn't 
make  'em  out  at  all;  but  after  the  shock  wore  away 
I  see  they  were  dolls,  dozens  of  'em,  hangin'  all  over 
the  walls  hi  rows  and  clusters,  like  hams  in  a  pork 
shop.  And  say,  that  was  the  wooziest  collection 
ever  bunched  together!  They  wa'n't  ordinary 
Christmas-tree  dolls,  the  store  kind.  Every  last 
one  of  'em  was  home-made,  white  cotton  heads, 
with  hand-painted  faces.  Course,  I  tumbled. 
This  was  some  of  that  half-batty  Aunt  'Melie's  work. 
This  was  what  she'd  put  in  her  time  on.  And  she 
sure  had  produced. 

For  face  paintin'  it  was  well  done,  I  guess,  only 
she  must  have  been  shut  up  so  long  away  from  folks 
that  she'd  sort  of  forgot  just  how  they  looked. 
Some  of  the  heads  had  sunbonnets  on,  and  some 
nightcaps;  but  they  were  all  the  same  shape,  like  a 
hardshell  clam,  flat  side  to.  The  eyes  were  painted 
about  twice  life-size — some  rolled  up,  some  canted 
down,  some  squintin'  sideways,  and  a  lot  was  just 
cross-eye.  There  was  green  eyes,  yellow  eyes, 
pink  eyes,  and  the  regular  kinds.  They  gave  me 
the  creeps. 

When  I  turns  around,  the  Bishop  stands  there 
with  his  mouth  open.  "Why,"  says  he — "why, 
professor!"  That  was  as  far  as  he  could  get. 


230  SHORTY  McCABE 

He  gasps  once  or  twice  and  gets  out  some- 
thing that  sounds  like  "  Remarkable,  truly  remark- 
able!" 

"  That's  the  word/'  says  I.  "  I'll  bet  there  ain't 
another  lot  like  this  in  the  country." 

"I — I  hope  not,"  says  he.  "No  offence  meant, 
though.  Do  you — er — do  this  sort  of  thing  your- 
self?" 

Well,  I  had  to  loosen  up  then.  I  told  him  about 
Aunt  'Melie,  and  how  I'd  bought  the  place  unsight 
and  unseen.  And  when  he  finds  this  was  my  first 
view  of  the  parlor  it  gets  him  in  the  short  ribs.  He 
has  a  funny  fit.  Every  time  he  takes  a  look  at 
them  dolls  he  has  another  spasm.  I  gets  him  out 
on  the  porch  again,  and  he  sits  there  slappin'  his 
knees  and  waggin'  his  head  and  wipin'  his  eyes. 

By-'m'-by  the  Bishop  calms  down  and  says  I've 
done  him  more  good  than  a  trip  to  Europe.  "  You 
must  let  me  bring  Major  Binger  over,"  says  he.  "  I 
want  him  to  see  those  dolls.  You  two  are  bound 
to  be  great  cronies." 

" I've  got  my  doubts  about  that,"  says  I.  "  But 
don't  you  go  to  mixin'  up  in  this  affair,  Bishop.  I 
don't  want  to  lug  you  in  for  any  trouble  with  any  of 
your  old  friends." 

You  couldn't  stave  the  Bishop  off,  though.  He 
had  to  hear  the  whole  yarn,  and  the  minute  he  gets 
it  straight  he  jumps  up. 


SHORTY  McCABE 


231 


"Binger's  a  hot-headed  old — well,"  says  he, 
catchin'  himself  just  in  time,  "  the  Major  has  a  way 
of  acting  first,  and  then  thinking  it  over.  I  must 
have  a  talk  with  him." 

I  guess  he  did,  too ;  for  they  were  at  it  some 
time  before  the  Bishop  waves  by-by  to  me  and 
drives  off. 

I'd  just  got  up  from  one  of  Mrs.  Whaley's  best 
chicken  dinners,  when  I  hears  a  hurrah  outside,  and 
horses  stampin'  and  a  horn  tootin'.  I  rushes  out 
front,  and  there  was  Pinckney,  sittin'  up  on  a  coach 
box,  just  pullin'  his  leaders  out  of  Dennis's  pansy 
bed.  There  was  about  a  dozen  of  his  crowd  on  top 
of  the  coach,  includin'  Mrs.  Dipworthy — Sadie 
Sullivan  that  was — and  Mrs.  Twombley  Crane,  and 
a  lot  more. 

"Hello,  Shorty!"  says  Pinckney.  "Is  the  doll 
exhibition  still  open?  If  it  is,  we  want  to  come  in." 

They'd  met  the  Bishop;  see?  And  he'd  steered 
'em  along. 

Well  say,  I  might  have  begun  the  day  kind  of 
lonesome,  but  it  had  a  lively  finish,  all  right.  In- 
side of  ten  minutes  Sadie  has  on  one  of  Mother 
Whaley's  white  aprons  and  is  takin'  charge.  She 
has  some  of  them  fancy  tables  and  chairs  lugged 
out  on  the  porch,  and  the  first  thing  I  knows  I'm 
holdin'  forth  at  a  pink  tea  that's  the  swellest  thing 
of  the  kind  Primrose  Park  ever  got  its  eyes  on. 


CHAPTER  XI 

No,  Nightingale  Cottage  ain't  in  the  market, 
and  it  looks  like  I'd  got  a  steady  job  introducin' 
Aunt  'Melie's  doll  collection  to  society;  for  Pinck- 
ney  carts  down  a  new  gang  every  Sunday.  As 
Sadie's  generally  on  hand  to  help  out,  I'm  ready 
to  stand  for  it.  Anyways,  I've  bought  a  fam'ly 
ticket  and  laid  in  a  stock  of  fancy  groceries. 

The  Maje?  Oh,  him  and  me  made  it  up  hand- 
some. He  comes  over  and  tells  me  about  that 
Mission  Ridge  stunt  of  his  every  chance  he  gets. 
But  say,  I'm  beginnin'  to  find  out  there's  others. 
It's  a  great  place,  Primrose  Park  is,  and  when  I 
sized  it  up  as  a  sort  of  annex  to  a  cemetery  I'd 
mistook  the  signs. 

It  don't  make  much  difference  where  you  are, 
all  you've  got  to  do  to  keep  your  blood  from  thin- 
nin'  out,  is  to  mix  in  with  folks.  Beats  all  how 
much  excitement  you  can  dig  up  that  way. 

Now,  I  wa'n't  huntin'  for  anything  of  the  kind, 
but  I  was  just  usin'  my  eyes  and  keepin'  my  ears 
open,  so  I  notices  that  out  on  the  main  road,  in 
front  of  the  Park,  is  one  of  those  swell  big  ranches 
that  hog  the  shore  front  all  the  way  from  Motthaven 
up  to  the  jumpin'-off  place.  From  the  outside 
all  you  can  see  is  iron  gates  and  stone  wall  and 


SHORTY  McCABE 


233 


stretches  of  green-plush  lawn.  Way  over  behind 
the  trees  you  can  get  a  squint  at  the  chimney  tops, 
and  you  know  that  underneath  is  a  little  cottage 
about  the  size  of  the  Grand  Central  station.  That's 
the  style  you  live  in  when  you've  hit  the  stock- 
market  right,  or  in  case  you've  got  to  be  a  top-notch 
grafter  that  the  muck-rakers  ain't  jungled  yet. 

I'd  been  wonderin'  what  kind  of  folks  hung  out 
in  there,  but  I'd  never  seen  any  of  'em  out  front, 
only  gardeners  killin'  time,  and  coachmen  exer- 
cisin'  the  horses.  But  one  mornin'  I  gets  a  private 
view  that  was  worth  watchin'  for. 

The  first  thing  on  the  program  was  an  old  duffer 
dodgin'  in  and  out  around  the  bushes  and  trees 
like  he  was  tryin'  to  lose  somebody.  That  got  me 
curious  right  away,  and  I  begins  to  pipe  him  off. 
He  was  togged  out  in  white  ducks,  somethin'  like 
a  window  cook  in  a  three-off  joint,  only  he  didn't 
sport  any  apron,  and  his  cap  had  gold  braid  on  it. 
His  hair  was  white,  too,  and  his  under  lip  was  dec- 
orated with  one  of  them  old-fashioned  teasers — 
just  a  little  bunch  of  cotton  that  the  barber  had 
shied.  He  was  a  well-built  old  boy,  but  his  face 
had  sort  of  a  sole  leather  tint  to  it  that  didn't  look 
healthy. 

From  his  motions  I  couldn't  make  out  whether 
he  was  havin'  a  game  of  hide-and-go-seek  or  was 
bein'  chased  by  a  dog.  The  last  thought  seemed 


234  SHORTY  McCABE 

more  likely,  so  I  strolls  over  to  the  stone  wall  and 
gets  ready  to  hand  out  a  swift  kick  to  the  kioodle, 
in  case  it  was  needed. 

When  he  sees  me  the  old  gent  begins  to  dodge 
livelier  than  ever  and  make  signals  with  his  hands. 
Well,  I  didn't  know  his  code.  I  couldn't  guess 
whether  he  wanted  me  to  run  for  a  club,  or  was 
tryin'  to  keep  me  from  buttin'  in,  so  I  just  stands 
there  with  my  mouth  open  and  looks  foolish. 

Next  thing  I  sees  is  a  wedge-faced,  long-legged 
guy  comin'  across  the  lawn  on  the  jump.  First  off 
I  thought  he  was  pushin'  one  of  these  sick-abed 
chairs,  like  they  use  on  the  board  walk  at  Atlantic 
City.  But  as  he  gets  nearer  I  see  it  was  a  green 
wicker  tea-wagon — you  know.  I  ain't  got  to  the 
tea-wagon  stage  myself,  but  I've  seen  'em  out  at 
Rockywold  and  them  places.  Handy  as  a  pocket 
in  a  shirt,  they  are.  When  you've  got  company  in 
the  afternoon  the  butler  wheels  the  thing  out  on 
the  veranda  and  digs  up  a  whole  tea-makin'  outfit 
from  the  inside.  When  it's  shut  it  looks  a  good 
deal  like  one  of  them  laundry  push-carts  they  have 
in  Harlem. 

Now,  I  ain't  in  love  with  tea  at  any  time  of  the 
day  except  for  supper,  and  I  sure  would  pass  it  up 
just  after  breakfast,  but  I  don't  know  as  I'd  break 
my  neck  to  get  away  from  it,  same's  the  old  gent 
was  doin'.  The  minute  he  gets  a  look  at  the  wagon 


SHORTY  McCABE 


235 


comin'  his  way  he  does  some  lively  side-steppin'. 
Then  he  jumps  behind  a  bush  and  hides,  givin'  me 
the  sign  not  to  let  on. 

The  long-legged  guy  knew  his  business,  though. 
He  came  straight  on,  like  he  was  followin'  a  scent, 
and  the  first  thing  old  Whitey  knows  he's  been  run 
down.  He  gives  in  then,  just  as  if  he'd  been  tagged. 

"Babbitt,"  says  he,  "I  had  you  hull  down  at 
one  time,  didn't  I?" 

But  either  Babbitt  was  too  much  out  of  breath, 
or  else  he  wasn't  the  talkative  kind,  for  he  never 
says  a  word,  but  just  opens  up  the  top  of  the  cart 
and  proceeds  to  haul  out  some  bottles  and  a  glass. 
First  he  spoons  out  some  white  powder  into  a 
tumbler.  Then  he  pours  in  some  water  and  stirs 
it  with  a  spoon.  When  the  mess  is  done  he  sticks 
it  out  to  the  old  gent.  The  old  one  never  lifts  a 
finger,  though. 

"Salute,  first,  you  frozen-faced  scum  of  the 
earth!"  he  yells.  "Salute,  sir!" 

Babbitt  made  a  stab  at  salutin'  too,  and  mighty 
sudden. 

"Now,  you  white-livered  imitation  of  a  man," 
says  the  old  gent,  "  you  may  hand  over  that  villain- 
ous stuff !  Bah! "  and  he  takes  a  sniff  of  it. 

Babbitt  keeps  his  eyes  glued  on  him  until  the 
last  drop  was  down,  then  he  jumped.  Lucky  he 
was  quick  on  the  duck,  for  the  glass  just  whizzed 


236  SHORTY  McCABE 

over  the  top  of  his  head.  While  he  was  stowin'  the 
things  away  the  old  fellow  let  loose.  Say,  you  talk 
about  a  cussing  I'll  bet  you  never  heard  a  string 
like  that.  It  wasn't  the  longshoreman's  kind.  But 
the  way  he  put  together  straight  dictionary  words 
was  enough  to  give  you  a  chill.  It  was  the  rattlin' 
style  he  had  of  rippin'  'em  out,  too,  that  made  it 
sound  like  swearin'.  If  there  was  any  part  of  that 
long-legged  guy  that  he  didn't  pay  his  respects  to, 
from  his  ears  to  his  toe-nails,  I  didn't  notice  it. 

"  It's  the  last  time  you  get  any  of  that  slush  into 
me,  Babbitt,"  says  he.  "Do  you  hear  that,  you 
peanut-headed,  scissor-shanked  whelp?" 

"Ten-thirty's  the  next  dose,  Commodore,"  says 
he  as  he  starts  off. 

"It  is,  eh,  you  wall-eyed  deck  swab?"  howls  the 
Commodore.  "  If  you  mix  any  more  of  that  infant 
food  for  me  I'll  skin  you  alive,  and  sew  you  up  hind 
side  before.  Do  you  hear  that,  you?" 

I  was  wearin'  a  broad  grin  when  the  old  Commo- 
dore turns  around  to  me. 

"If  that  fellow  keeps  this  up,"  says  he,  "I  shall 
lose  my  temper  some  day.  Ever  drink  medicated 
milk,  eh?  Ugh!  It  tastes  the  way  burnt  feathers 
smell.  And  I'm  dosed  with  it  eight  times  a  day! 
Think  of  it,  milk!  But  what  makes  me  mad  is  to 
have  it  ladled  out  to  me  by  that  long-faced,  fish- 
eyed  food  destroyer,  whose  only  joy  in  life  is  to  hunt 


SHORTY  McCABE 


237 


me  down  and  gloat  over  my  misery.  Oh,  I'll  get 
square  with  him  yet,  sir;  I  swear  I  will." 

"  I  wish  you  luck,"  says  I. 

"Who  are  you,  anyway?"  says  he. 

"Nobody  much,"  says  I,  "so  there's  two  of  us. 
I'm  livin'  in  the  cottage  across  the  way." 

"The  deuce  you  say!"  says  he.  "Then  you're 
Shorty  McCabe,  aren't  you?" 

"  You're  on,"  says  I.     "  How'd  you  guess  it?" 

Well,  it  seems  one  of  my  reg'lars  was  a  partner 
of  his  son-in-law,  who  owned  the  big  place,  and 
they'd  been  talkin'  about  me  just  the  day  before. 
After  that  it  didn't  take  long  for  the  Commodore 
and  me  to  get  a  line  on  each  other,  and  when  I 
finds  out  he's  Roaring  Dick,  the  nervy  old  chap 
that  stood  out  on  the  front  porch  of  his  ship  all 
through  the  muss  at  Santiago  Bay  and  hammered 
the  daylights  out  of  the  Spanish  fleet,  I  gives  him 
the  hand. 

"I've  read  about  you  in  the  papers,"  says  I. 

"Not  so  often  as  I  used  to  read  about  you,"  says 
he. 

And  say,  inside  of  ten  minutes  we  was  like 
a  couple  of  G.  A.  R.  vets,  at  a  reunion.  Then 
he  told  me  all  about  the  medicated-milk  busi- 
ness. 

It  didn't  take  any  second  sight  to  see  that  the 
Commodore  was  a  gay  old  sport.  He'd  been  on 


238  SHORTY  McCABE 

the  European  station  for  three  years,  knockin' 
around  with  kings  and  princes,  and  French  and 
Russian  naval  officers  that  was  grand  dukes  and 
such  when  they  was  ashore ;  and  he'd  carried  along 
with  him  a  truck-driver's  thirst  and  the  capacity  of 
a  ward  boss.  The  fizzy  stuff  he'd  stowed  away  in 
that  time  must  have  been  enough  to  sail  a  ship  on. 
I  guess  he  didn't  mind  it  much,  though,  for  he'd 
been  in  pickle  a  long  time.  It  was  the  seventeen- 
course  night  dinners  and  the  foreign  cooking  that 
gave  him  the  knockout. 

All  of  a  sudden  his  digester  had  thrown  up  the 
job,  and  before  he  knew  it  he  was  in  a  state  where 
a  hot  biscuit  or  a  piece  of  fried  potato  would  lay  him 
out  on  his  back  for  a  week.  He'd  come  home  on 
sick  leave  to  visit  his  daughter,  and  his  rich  son-in- 
law  had  steered  him  up  against  a  specialist  who 
told  him  that. if  he  didn't  quit  and  obey  orders  he 
wouldn't  last  three  weeks.  The  orders  was  to  live 
on  nothin'  but  medicated  milk,  and  for  a  man  that 
had  been  livin'  the  way  he  had  it  was  an  awful 
jolt.  He  couldn't  be  trusted  to  take  the  stuff 
himself,  so  they  hired  valets  to  keep  him  doped 
with  it. 

"I  scared  the  first  one  half  to  death,"  says  the 
Commodore,  "  and  the  next  one  I  bribed  to  smuggle 
out  ham  sandwiches.  Then  they  got  this  fellow 
Babbitt  to  follow  me  around  with  that  cursed  go- 


SHORTY  McCABE 


239 


cart,  and  I  haven't  had  a  moment's  peace  since. 
He's  just  about  equal  to  a  job  like  that,  Babbitt 
is.  I  make  him  earn  his  money,  though." 

You'd  have  thought  so  if  you  could  have  seen 
the  old  Commodore  work  up  games  to  throw 
Babbitt  off  the  track.  I  put  in  most  of  the  day 
watchin'  'em  at  it,  and  it  was  as  good  as  a  vaude- 
ville act.  About  a  quarter  of  an  hour  before  it 
was  time  for  the  dose  the  valet  would  come  out  and 
begin  to  look  around  the  grounds.  Soon  as  he'd 
located  the  Commodore  he'd  slide  off  after  his  tea 
wagon.  That  was  just  where  the  old  boy  got  in 
his  fine  work.  The  minute  Babbitt  was  out  of 
sight  the  Commodore  makes  a  break  fora  newhidin' 
place,  so  the  valet  has  to  wheel  that  cart  all  over 
the  lot,  play  in'  peekaboo  behind  every  bush  and 
tree  until  he  nailed  his  man. 

Now  you'd  think  most  anyone  with  a  head  would 
have  cracked  a  joke  now  and  then  with  the  old  gent, 
and  kind  of  made  it  easy  all  round.  But  not  Babbitt. 
He'd  been  hired  to  get  medicated  milk  into  the 
Commodore,  and  that  was  all  the  idea  his  nut 
could  accommodate  at  one  time.  He  was  one  of 
these  stiff-necked,  cold-blooded  flunkies,  that  don't 
seem  much  more  human  than  wooden  Indians.  He 
had  an  aggravatin'  way,  too,  of  treatin'  the  old 
chap  when  he  got  him  cornered.  He  was  polite 
enough,  so  far  as  what  he  had  to  say,  but  it 


240  SHORTY  McCABE 

was  the  mean  look  in  his  ratty  little  eyes  that 
grated. 

With  every  dose  the  Commodore  got  madder  and 
madder.  Some  of  the  names  he  thought  up  to  call 
that  valet  was  worth  puttin'  in  a  book.  It  seemed 
like  a  shame,  though,  to  stir  up  the  old  gent  that 
way,  and  I  don't  believe  the  medicine  did  him  any 
more  good.  He  took  it,  though,  because  he'd 
promised  his  daughter  he  would.  Course,  I  had  my 
own  notions  of  that  kind  of  treatment,  but  I  couldn't 
see  that  it  was  up  to  me  to  jump  in  the  coacher's 
box  and  give  off  any  advice. 

Next  mornin'  I'd  been  out  for  a  little  leg-work 
and  I  was  just  joggin'  into  the  park  again,  when  I 
hears  all  kinds  of  a  ruction  goin'  on  over  behind  the 
stonewall.  There  was  screams  and  yells  and  shouts, 
like  a  Saturday-night  riot  in  Double  Alley.  I  pokes 
up  a  giraffe  neck  and  sees  a  couple  of  women  runnin' 
across  the  lawn.  Pretty  soon  what  they  was  chasin' 
comes  into  view.  It  was  the  Commodore.  He  was 
pushin'  the  tea-wagon  in  front  of  him,  and  in  the 
top  of  that,  with  just  his  legs  and  arms  stickin'  out, 
was  Babbitt. 

I  knew  what  was  up  in  a  minute.  He'd  lost  his 
temper,  just  as  he  was  afraid  he  would,  and  before 
he'd  got  it  back  again  he'd  grabbed  the  valet  and 
jammed  him  head  first  into  the  green  cart.  But 
where  he  was  goin'  with  him  was  more'n  I  could 


In  the  top  of  the  tea  wagon,  was  Babbitt. 


SHORTY  McCABE 


241 


guess.  Anyway,  it  was  somewhere  that  he  was  in 
a  hurry  to  get  to,  for  the  old  boy  was  rushin'  the 
outfit  across  the  front  yard  for  all  he  was  worth. 

"Oh,  stop  him,  stop  him!"  screams  one  of  the 
women,  that  I  figures  out  must  be  the  daughter. 

"Stop  'im!  Stop  'im!"  yells  the  other.  She 
looked  like  one  of  the  maids. 

"I'm  no  backstop/'  thinks  I  to  myself .  "Be- 
sides, this  is  a  family  affair." 

I'd  have  hated  to  have  blocked  that  run,  too; 
for  it  was  doin'  me  a  lot  of  good,  just  watchin'  it 
and  thinkin'  of  the  bumps  Babbitt  wrs  gettin', 
with  his  head  down  among  the  bottles. 

I  follows  along  on  the  outside  though,  and  in  a 
minute  or  so  I  sees  what  the  Commodore  was  aimin' 
at.  Out  to  one  side  was  a  cute  little  fish-pond, 
about  a  hundred  feet  across,  and  he  was  makin'  a 
bee  line  for  that.  It  was  down  hi  a  sort  of  hollow, 
with  nice  smooth  turf  slopin'  clear  to  the  edge. 

When  the  Commodore  gets  half-way  down  he 
gives  the  cart  one  last  push,  and  five  seconds  later 
Mr.  Babbitt,  with  his  head  still  stuck  in  the  wagon, 
souses  into  the  water  like  he'd  been  dropped  from 
a  balloon.  The  old  boy  stays  just  long  enough  to 
see  the  splash,  and  then  he  keeps  right  on  goin' 
towards  New  York. 

At  that  I  jumps  the  stone  wall  and  prepares  to 
do  some  quick  divin',  but  before  I  could  fetch  the 

16 


242  SHORTY  McCABE 

pond  Babbitt  comes  to  the  top,  blowin'  muddy 
water  out  of  his  mouth  and  threshin'  his  arms 
around  windmill  fashion.  Then  his  feet  touches 
bottom  and  he  finds  he  ain't  in  any  danger  of  bein' 
drowned.  The  wagon  comes  up,  too,  and  the  first 
thing  he  does  is  to  grab  that.  By  the  time  I  gets 
there  he  was  wadin'  across  with  the  cart,  and  the 
women  had  made  up  their  minds  there  wa'n't  any 
use  fainting. 

"  Babbitt,"  says  the  Commodore's  daughter, "  ex- 
plain your  conduct  instantly.  What  were  you 
doing  standing  on  your  head  in  that  tea-wagon?" 

"Please,  ma'am,  I — I  forget,"  splutters  Babbitt, 
wipin'  the  mud  out  of  his  eyes. 

"You  forget!"  says  the  lady.  And  say,  anyone 
that  knew  the  old  Commodore  wouldn't  have  to 
do  any  guessin'  as  to  who  her  father  was.  "You 
forget,  do  you?  Well,  I  want  you  to  remember. 
Out  with  it,  now!" 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  says  Babbitt,  tryin'  to  prop  up 
his  wilted  collar.  "  I'd  just  give  him  his  first  dose 
for  the  day,  and  I'd  dodged  the  glass,  when  some- 
thin'  catches  me  from  behind,  throws  me  into  the 
tea-wagon,  and  off  I  goes.  But  that  dose  counts, 
don't  it,  ma'am?  He  got  it  down." 

I  sees  how  it  was  then;  Babbitt  had  been  gettin' 
a  commission  for  every  glass  of  the  medicated  stuff 
he  pumped  into  the  Commodore. 


SHORTY  McCABE  243 

"Will  you  please  run  after  my  father  and  tell 
him  to  come  back,"  says  the  lady  to  me. 

"Sorry,"  says  I,  "but  I'm  no  antelope.  You'd 
better  telegraph  him." 

I  didn't  stay  to  see  any  more,  I  was  that  sore  on 
the  whole  crowd.  But  I  hoped  the  old  one  would 
have  sense  enough  to  clear  out  for  good. 

I  didn't  hear  any  more  from  my  neighbors  all 
day,  but  after  supper  that  night,  just  about  dusk, 
somebody  sneaks  in  through  the  back  way  and 
wabbles  up  to  the  veranda  where  I  was  sittin'.  It 
was  the  old  Commodore.  He  was  about  all  in,  too. 

"  Did — did  I  drown  him?"  says  he. 

"You  made  an  elegant  try,"  says  I;  "but  there 
wasn't  water  enough." 

"Thank  goodness!"  says  he.  "Now  I  can  die 
calmly." 

"What's  the  use  dyin'?"  says  I.  "Ain't  there 
no  thin'  else  left  to  do  but  that?" 

"I've  got  to,"  says  he.  "I  can't  live  on  that 
cursed  stuff  they've  been  giving  me,  and  if  I  eat 
anything  else  I  'm  done  for .  The  specialist  said  so ." 

"Oh,  well,"  says  I,  "maybe  he's  made  a  wrong 
guess.  It's  your  turn  now.  Suppose  you  come  in 
and  let  me  have  Mother  Whaley  broil  you  a  nice 
juicy  hunk  of  steak?" 

Say,  he  was  near  starved.  I  could  tell  that  by 
the  way  he  looked  when  I  mentioned  broiled  steak. 


244  SHORTY  McCABE 

He  shook  his  head,  though.     "  If  I  did,  I'd  die  be- 
fore morning,"  says  he. 

"  I'll  bet  you  a  dollar  you  wouldn't,"  says  I. 

That  almost  gets  a  grin  out  of  him.  "Shorty," 
says  he,  "  I'm  going  to  risk  it." 

"It's  better'n  starving  to  death,"  says  I. 

And  he  sure  did  eat  like  a  hungry  man.  When 
he'd  put  away  a  good  square  meal,  includin'  a  dish 
of  sliced  raw  onions  and  two  cups  of  hot  tea,  I 
plants  him  in  an  arm  chair  and  shoves  out  the  cigar 
box.  He  looks  at  the  Fumadoras  regretful. 

"They've  kept  those  locked  away  from  me  for 
two  weeks,"  says  he,  "and  that  was  worse  than 
going  without  food." 

"Smoke  up,  then,"  says  I.  "There's  one  due 
you." 

"As  it  will  probably  be  my  last,  I  guess  I  will," 
says  he. 

Honest,  the  old  gent  was  so  sure  he'd  croak  be- 
fore mornin'  that  he  wanted  to  write  some  farewell 
letters,  but  he  was  too  done  up  for  that.  I  tucked 
him  into  a  spare  bed,  opened  all  the  windows,  and 
before  I  could  turn  out  the  light  he  was  sawin'  wood 
like  a  hired  man. 

He  was  still  workin'  the  fog  horn  when  I  went  in 
to  rout  him  out  at  five  o'clock.  It  was  a  tough 
job  gettin'  him  up,  but  I  got  him  out  of  his  trance 
at  last. 


SHORTY  McCABE 


245 


"Come  on,"  says  I,  "we've  got  to  do  our  three 
miles  and  have  a  rub-down  before  breakfast." 

First  off  he  swore  he  couldn't  move,  and  I  guess 
he  was  some  stiff  from  his  sprint  the  day  before, 
but  by  the  time  he'd  got  out  where  the  birds  was 
singin',  and  the  trees  and  grass  looked  like  they'd 
been  done  over  new  durin'  the  night,  I  was  able  to 
coax  him  into  a  dog-trot.  It  was  a  gentle  little 
stunt  we  did,  but  it  limbered  the  old  boy  up,  and 
after  we'd  had  a  cold  shower  and  a  quick  rub  he 
forgot  all  about  his  joints. 

"Well,  are  you  set  on  keepin'  that  date  in  the 
obituary  column,  or  will  we  have  breakfast?" 
says  I. 

"I  could  eat  cold  lobscouse,"  says  he. 

"Mother  Whaley's  got  somethin'  better'n  that 
in  the  kitchen,"  says  I. 

"I  suppose  this  will  finish  me,"  says  he,  tacklin' 
the  eggs  and  corn  muffins. 

Now,  wouldn't  that  give  you  the  pip?  Why, 
with  their  specialists  and  medicated  dope,  they'd 
got  the  old  chap  so  leery  of  good  straight  grub  that 
he  was  bein'  starved  to  death.  And  even  after  I'd 
got  him  braced  up  into  something  like  condition, 
he  didn't  think  it  was  hardly  right  to  go  on  eatin'. 

"  I  expect  I  ought  to  go  back  and  start  in  on  that 
slop  diet  again,"  says  he. 

I  couldn't  stand  by  and  see  him  do  that,  though. 


246  SHORTY  McCABE 

He  was  too  fine  an  old  sport  to  be  polished  off  in 
any  such  style.  "See  here,  Commodore,"  says  I, 
"  if  you're  dead  stuck  on  makin'  a  livin'  skeleton  of 
yourself,  why,  I  throws  up  me  hands.  But  if  you'll 
stay  here  for  a  couple  of  weeks  and  do  just  as  I  say, 
I'll  put  you  in  trim  to  hit  up  the  kind  of  life  I  reckon 
you  think  is  worth  livin'. 

"By  glory!"  says  he,  "if  you  can  do  that  I'll—" 
"  No  you  won't,"  say  I.  "  This  is  my  blow." 
Course,  it  was  a  cinch.  He  wa'n't  any  invalid. 
There  was  stuff  enough  in  him  to  last  for  twenty 
years,  if  it  was  handled  right.  He  begun  to  pick 
up  right  away.  I  only  worked  him  hard  enough 
to  make  the  meals  seem  a  long  ways  apart  and  the 
mattress  feel  good.  Inside  of  a  week  I  had  the 
red  back  in  his  cheeks,  and  he  was  chuckin'  the 
medicine  ball  around  good  and  hard,  and  tellin'  me 
what  a  scrapper  he  used  to  be  when  he  first  went 
to  the  cadet  mill,  down  to  Annapolis.  You  can 
always  tell  when  these  old  boys  feel  kinky — they 
begin  to  remember  things  like  that.  Before  the 
fortnight  was  up  he  wasn't  shy  in'  at  anything  on 
the  bill  of  fare,  and  he  was  hintin'  around  that  his 
thirst  was  comin'  back  strong. 

"Can't  I  ever  have  another  drink?"  says  he,  as 
sad  as  a  kid  leavin'  home. 

"I'd  take  as  little  as  I  could  get  along  with," 
I. 


SHORTY  McCABE 


247 


"  I'll  promise  to  do  that,"  says  he. 

He  did,  too.  About  the  second  day  after  he'd 
gone  back  to  his  son-in-law's  place,  he  sends  for 
me  to  come  over.  I  finds  him  walkin'  around  the 
grounds  as  spry  as  a  two-year-old. 

"Well,"  says  I,  "how  did  the  folks  take  it?" 

He  chuckles.  "They  don't  know  what  to  say," 
says  he.  "They  can't  see  how  a  specialist  who 
charges  five  hundred  dollars  for  an  hour's  visit  can 
be  wrong;  but  they  admit  I'm  as  good  as  new." 

"How's  Babbitt?"  says  I. 

"That's  why  I  wanted  you  to  come  over,"  says 
he.  "Now  watch."  Then  he  lets  out  a  roar  you 
could  have  heard  ten  blocks  away,  and  in  about 
two  shakes  old  wash-day  shows  up.  "Ha!  You 
shark-nosed  sculpin!"  yells  the  Commodore. 
"Where's  your  confounded  tea  cart?  Go  get  it, 
sir." 

"Yes,  sir;  directly,  sir,"  says  Babbitt. 

He  comes  trottin'  back  with  it  in  a  hurry. 

"Got  any  of  that  blasted  decayed  milk  in  it?" 
says  the  Commodore. 

"No,  sir,"  says  Babbitt. 

"  Are  you  glad  or  sorry?  Speak  up,  now,"  says 
the  Commodore. 

"  I'm  glad,  sir,"  says  Babbitt,  givin'  the  salute. 

"  Good ! ' '  says  the  Commodore.  "  Then  open  up 
your  wagon  and  mix  me  a  Scotch  high-ball." 


248  SHORTY  McCABE 

And  Babbitt  did  it  like  a  little  man. 

"I  find/'  says  the  Commodore,  winkin'  at  me 
over  the  top  of  his  glass,  "that  I  can  get  along  with 
as  few  as  six  of  these  a  day.  To  your  very  good 
health,  Professor  McCabe." 

Stand  it?  Well,  I  shouldn't  wonder.  He's  a 
tough  one.  And  ten  years  from  now,  if  there's 
another  Dago  fleet  to  be  filled  full  of  shot  holes,  I 
shouldn't  be  surprised  to  find  my  old  Commodore 
fit  and  ready  to  turn  the  trick. 


CHAPTER  XII 

YOU'D  most  think  after  that  I'd  have  cut  out  the 
country  for  a  while;  but  say,  I'm  gettin'  so  I  can 
stand  a  whole  lot  of  real  breathin'  air.  Anyway, 
I've  put  the  Studio  on  summer  schedule,  and  every 
Saturday  about  noon  I  pikes  out  to  Primrose  Park, 
to  see  if  me  estate's  growed  any  durin'  the  week. 

Well,  the  last  time  I  does  it,  I  drops  off  about 
two  stations  too  soon,  thinkin'  a  little  outdoor  leg- 
work  would  do  me  good. 

It  was  a  grand  scheme,  and  I'd  been  all  right  if  I'd 
followed  the  trolley  track  along  the  post-road;  but 
the  gasolene  carts  was  so  thick,  and  I  got  to  breath- 
in' so  much  gravel,  that  I  switches  off.  I  takes  a 
nice-lookin'  lane  that  appears  like  it  might  bring 
me  out  somewhere  near  the  place  I  was  headin' 
for;  but  as  I  ain't  much  on  findin'  my  way  where 
they  don't  have  sign-boards  at  the  corners,  the  first 
thing  I  knows  I've  made  so  many  turns  I  don't 
know  whether  I'm  goin'  out  or  comin'  back. 

It  was  while  I  wasdoin'  the  stray  act,  and  wonder- 
in'  if  it  was  goin'  to  shower,  or  was  only  just  bluffin', 
that  I  bumps  into  this  Incubator  bunch,  and  the 
performance  begins. 

First  squint  I  took  I  thought  somebody'd  been 
settin'  out  a  new  kind  of  shrubbery,  and  then  I 


250  SHORTY  McCABE 

sized  it  up  for  a  lot  of  umbrella  jars  that  had  been 
dumped  there.  But  pretty  soon  I  sees  that  it's 
nothin'  but  a  double  row  of  kids,  all  dressed  the 
same.  There  must  have  been  more'n  a  hundred 
of  'em,  and  they  was  standin'  quiet  by  the  side  of 
the  road,  just  as  much  to  home  as  if  that  was  where 
they  belonged.  Now,  it  ain't  the  reg'lar  thing  to 
find  any  such  aggregation  as  that  on  a  back  lane, 
and  if  I'd  had  as  much  sense  as  a  family  horse  in  a 
carryall  I'd  shied  and  rambled  the  other  way.  But 
I  has  to  get  curious  to  see  what  it's  all  about,  so  I 
blazes  ahead,  figurin'  on  takin'  a  good  look  as  I 
goes  by. 

At  the  head  of  the  procession  was  a  lady  and  gent 
holdin'  some  kind  of  exercises,  and  as  I  comes  up 
I  notices  something  familiar  about  the  lady's  back 
hair.  She  turns  around  just  then,  gives  a  little 
squeal,  and  makes  for  me  with  both  hands  out. 
Sure,  it  was  her — Sadie  Sullivan,  that  was.  Well, 
I  knew  that  Sadie  was  liable  to  be  floatin'  around 
anywhere  in  Westchester  County,  for  that  seems  to 
be  her  regular  stampin'  ground  since  she  got  to 
travelin'  with  the  country  house  set;  but  I  wasn't 
lookin'  to  run  across  her  just  then  and  in  that  com- 
pany. 

"Oh,  Shorty!"  says  she,  "you're  a  life-saver! 
I've  half  a  mind  to  hug  you  right  here." 

"If  it  wa'n't  for  givin'  an  exhibition,"  says  I, 


SHORTY  McCABE  251 

"I'd  lend  you  the  other  half.  But  how  does  the 
life-savin'  come  in?  And  where'd  you  collect  so 
many  kids  all  of  a  size?  Is  that  pop,  there?"  and 
I  jerks  me  thumb  at  the  gent. 

"Captain  Kenwoodie,"  says  Sadie,  "I  want  you 
to  know  my  friend,  Professor  McCabe.  Shorty, 
this  is  Captain  Sir  Hunter  Kenwoodie,  of  the  British 
war  office." 

"  Woodie,"  says  I,  "how  goes  it?" 
"Chawmed  to  meet  you,  I'm  suah,"  says  he. 
"Oh,  splash!"  says  I.  "You  don't  mean  it?" 
Well,  say !  he  was  a  star.  His  get-up  was  some- 
thin'  between  that  of  a  mounted  cop  and  the  leader 
of  a  Hungarian  band,  and  he  was  as  stiff  as  if  he'd 
been  dipped  in  the  glue-pot  the  day  before.  I'd 
heard  somethin'  about  him  from  Pinckney.  He'd 
drawn  plans  and  specifications  for  a  new  forage  cap 
for  the  British  army,  and  on  the  strength  of  that 
he'd  been  sent  over  to  the  States  to  inspect  belt 
buckles,  or  somethin'  of  the  kind.  Talk  about  your 
cinch  jobs!  those  are  the  lads  that  can  pull  'em  out. 
On  his  off  days — and  he  had  five  or  six  a  week — 
Woodie'd  been  ornamentin'  the  top  of  tally-hos, 
and  restin'  up  at  such  places  as  Rockywold  and 
Apawamis  Arms. 

Seems  like  he'd  discovered  Sadie,  too,  and  had 
booked  himself  for  her  steady  company.  From  her 
story  it  looked  like  they'd  been  takin'  a  little  drive 


252  SHORTY  McCABE 

around  the  country,  when  they  ran  up  against  this 
crowd  of  kids  in  checked  dresses  from  the  Incubator 
home.  There  was  a  couple  of  nurses  herdin'  the 
bunch,  and  they'd  all  been  sent  up  the  Sound  on  an 
excursion  barge,  for  one  of  these  fresh-air  blow-outs 
that  always  seem  like  an  invitation  for  trouble. 
Everything  had  gone  lovely  until  the  chowder  barge 
had  got  mixed  up  with  a  tow  of  coal  scows  and  got 
bumped  so  hard  that  she  sprung  a  leak. 

There  hadn't  been  any  great  danger,  but  the 
excitement  came  along  in  chunks.  The  crew  had 
run  the  barge  ashore  and  landed  the  whole  crowd, 
but  in  the  mix-up  one  of  the  women  had  backed  off 
the  gangplank  into  three  feet  of  water,  and  the  other 
had  sprained  an  ankle.  The  pair  of  'em  was  all  to 
the  bad  when  Sadie  and  the  Cap  came  along  and 
found  'em  tryin'  to  lead  their  flock  to  the  nearest 
railroad  station. 

Course,  Sadie  had  piled  right  out,  loaded  the 
nurses  into  the  carriage,  tellin'  the  driver  to  find 
the  next  place  where  the  cars  stopped  and  come 
back  after  the  kids  with  all  the  buggies  he  could 
find,  while  she  and  Woodie  stood  by  to  see  that  the 
Incubators  didn't  stampede  and  get  scattered  all 
over  the  lot. 

"So,  here  we  are,"  says  Sadie,  "with  all  these 
children,  and  a  shower  coming  up.  Now,  what 
shall  we  do  and  where  shall  we  go?" 


•SHORTY  McCABE 


253 


"Say/'  says  I,  "I  may  look  like  an  information 
bureau,  but  I  don't  feel  the  part." 

Sadie  couldn't  get  it  through  her  head,  though, 
that  I  wasn't  a  Johnny-on-the-spot.  Because  I'd 
bought  a  place  somewhere  in  [the  county,  she 
thought  I  could  draw  a  map  of  the  state  with  my 
eyes  shut.  "We  ought  to  start  right  away,"  says 
she. 

She  was  more  or  less  of  a  prophet,  too.  That 
thunder-storm  was  gettin'  busy  over  on  Long  Island 
and  there  was  every  chance  of  its  comin'  our  way. 
It  lets  loose  a  good  hard  crack,  and  the  Englishman 
begins  to  look  worried. 

"Aw,  I  say  now!"  says  he,  "hadn't  I  better  jog 
off  and  hurry  up  that  bloomin'  coachman?" 

"All  right,  run  along,"  says  Sadie. 

You  should  have  seen  the  start  of  that  run.  He 
got  under  way  like  a  man  on  stilts,  and  he  was  about 
as  limber  as  a  pair  of  fire-tongs.  But  then,  them 
leather  cuffs  on  his  legs,  and  the  way  his  coat  hugged 
the  small  of  his  back,  wa'n't  any  help.  I  was  enjoy- 
in'  his  motions  so  much  that  I  hadn't  paid  any 
attention  to  the  kids,  and  I  guess  Sadie  hadn't 
either;  but  the  first  we  knows  they  all  falls  in  be- 
hind, two  by  two,  hand  in  hand,  and  goes  trottin' 
along  behind  him. 

"Stop  'em!    Stop  'em!"  says  Sadie. 

"Whoa!    Cheese  it!    Come  back  here!"  I  yells. 


254  SHORTY  McCABE 

They  didn't  give  us  any  more  notice,  though, 
than  as  if  we'd  been  holdin'  our  breath.  The  head 
pair  had  their  eyes  glued  on  the  Captain.  They 
were  the  leaders,  and  the  rest  followed  like  they'd 
been  tied  together  with  a  rope.  They  was  all  girls 
and  I  guess  they'd  average  about  five  years  old.  I 
thought  at  first  they  all  had  on  aprons,  but  now  I 
sees  that  every  last  one  of  'em  was  wearin'  a  life- 
preserver.  They'd  tied  the  things  on  after  the 
bump,  and  I  suppose  the  nurses  had  been  too  rattled 
to  take  'em  off  since.  Maybe  it  wa'n't  a  sight  to 
see  them  bobbin'  up  and  down ! 

Woodie,  he  looks  around  and  sees  what's  comin' 
after  him,  and  waves  for  'em  to  go  back.  Not  much. 
They  stops  when  he  stops,  but  when  he  starts  again 
they're  right  after  him.  He  unlimbers  a  little  and 
tries  to  break  away,  but  the  kids  jump  into  the 
double-quick  and  hang  to  him. 

I  knew  what  was  up  then.  They'd  sized  him  up 
for  a  cop,  and  cops  was  what  they  was  used  to. 
You've  seen  those  lines  of  Home  kids  bein'  passed 
across  the  street  by  the  traffic  squad?  Well,  havin' 
lost  their  nurses,  and  not  seein'  anything  familiar- 
lookin'  about  Sadie  or  me,  they'd  made  up  their 
minds  that  Woodie  was  it.  They  meant  to  stick  to 
him  until  something  better  showed  up.  Once  I 
got  this  through  my  nut,  I  makes  a  sprint  to  the 
head  of  the  column  and  gets  a  grip  on  the  Cap. 


SHORTY  McCABE  255 

"See  here,  Woodie!"  says  I,  "y°u're  elected. 
You'll  have  to  stay  by  the  kids  until  relieved. 
They've  adopted  you." 

"Aw,  I  say  now,"  says  he,  "this  is  too  beastly 
absurd,  y'know.  It's  a  bore.  Why,  if  I  don't  find 
some  place  or  other  very  soon  I'll  get  a  wetting." 

"You  can't  go  anywhere  without  those  kids," 
says  I;  "so  come  along  back  with  us.  We  need 
you  in  our  business." 

He  didn't  like  it  a  little  bit,  for  he'd  figured  on 
shakin'  the  bunch  of  us;  but  he  had  to  go,  and 
when  he  came  right-about-face  the  procession  did 
a  snake  movement  there  in  the  road  that  would 
have  done  credit  to  the  Seventh  Regiment. 

I'd  been  lookin'  around  for  a  place  to  make  for. 
Off  over  the  trees  toward  the  Sound  was  a  flag-pole 
that  I  reckoned  stood  on  some  kind  of  a  buildin' 
and^there  was  a  road  runnin'  that  way. 

"We'll  mosey  down  towards  that,"  says  I;  "but 
we  could  make  better  time,  Cap'n,  if  you'd  get  your 
party  down  to  light-weight  marchin'  order.  Sup- 
pose you  give  the  command  for  them  to  shed  them 
cork  jackets." 

"Why,  really,  now,"  says  he,  lookin'  over  the 
crowd  kind  of  helpless,  "  I  haven't  the  faintest  idea 
how  to  do  it,  y'know." 

"  Well,  it's  up  to  you,"  says  I.  "Make  a  speech 
to  'em  " 


256  SHORTY  McCABE 

Say,  that  was  the  dopiest  bunch  of  kids  I  ever 
saw.  They  acted  like  they  wa'n't  more'n  half 
alive,  standin'  there  in  pairs,  as  quiet  as  sheep, 
waitin'  for  the  word.  But  that's  the  way  they 
bring  'em  up  in  these  Homes,like  so  many  machines, 
and  they  didn't  know  how  to  act  any  other  way. 
Sadie  saw  it,  and  dropped  down  on  her  knees  to 
gather  in  as  many  as  she  could  'get  her  arms  around. 

"Oh,  you  poor  little  wretches!"  says  she,  be- 
ginnin'  to  sniffle. 

"Cut  it  out,  Sadie!"  says  I.  "There  ain't  any 
time  for  that.  Unbuckle  them  belts.  Turn  to, 
Cap,  and  get  on  the  job.  You're  in  this." 

As  soon  as  Woodie  showed  'em  what  was  wanted, 
though,  they  skinned  themselves  out  of  those  can- 
vas sinkers  in  no  time  at  all.  We  left  the  truck  in 
the  road,  and  with  the  English  gent  for  drum-major, 
Sadie  in  the  middle,  and  me  playin'  snapper  on  the 
end,  we  starts  for  the  flag-pole.  I  thought  maybe 
it  might  be  a  hotel ;  but  when  we  got  where  the  road 
opened  out  of  the  woods  to  show  us  how  near  the 
Sound  we  was,  I  sees  that  it's  a  yacht  club,  with  a 
lot  of  flags  flyin'  and  a  whole  bunch  of  boats  an- 
chored off.  About  then  we  felt  the  first  wet  spots. 

"They've  got  to  take  us  into  that  club-house," 
says  Sadie. 

We'd  got  as  far  as  the  gates,  one  of  these  fancy 
kind,  with  a  hood  top  over  the  posts,  like  the  roof 


SHORTY  McCABE 


257 


of  a  summer-house,  when  the  sprinkler  was  turned 
on  in  earnest.  Woodie  was  gettin'  rain-drops  on 
his  new  uniform,  and  he  didn't  like  it. 

"  I'll  stay  here,"  says  he,  and  bolts  under  cover. 

The  Incubator  kids  swings  like  they  was  on  a 
pivot,  and  piles  in  after  him.  There  wasn't  any- 
thing to  do  then  but  stop  under  the  gate,  seein'  as 
the  club-house  was  a  hundred  yards  or  so  off.  I 
snaked  Woodie  out,  though,  and  made  him  help  me 
range  the  youngsters  under  the  middle  of  the  roof; 
and  when  we'd  got  'em  packed  in  four  deep,  with 
Sadie  squeezed  in  too,  there  wa'n't  an  inch  of  room 
for  either  of  us  left. 

And  was  it  rainin'?  Wow!  You'd  thought  four 
eights  had  been  rung  in  and  all  the  water-towers  in 
New  York  was  turned  loose  on  us.  And  the  thun- 
der kept  rippin'  a'nd  roarin',  and  the  chain-light- 
nin'  streaked  things  up  like  the  finish  of  one  of 
Colonel  Pain's  exhibits. 

"Sing  to  them!"  shouts  Sadie.  "It's  the  only 
way  to  keep  them  from  being  scared  to  death. 
Sing!" 

"Do  you  hear  that,  Woodie?"  says  I  across  the 
top  of  their  heads.  "Sing  to  'em,  you  lobster!" 

The  Captain  was  standing  just  on  the  other  side 
of  the  bunch.  He'd  got  the  front  half  of  him  under 
cover,  but  there  wasn't  room  for  the  rest;  so  it 

didn't  do  him  much  good,  for  the  roof  eaves  was 
17 


258  SHORTY  McCABE 

leakin'  down  the  back  of  his  neck  at  the  rate  of  a 
gallon  a  minute. 

"Only  fu-fu-fawncy!"  says  he.  "I  don't  fu- 
feel  like  singing,  y'know." 

"  Make  a  noise  like  you  did  then,"  says  I.  "  Come 
on,  now!" 

"But  really,  I  cawn't,"  says  he.  "I n-never sing, 
y'know." 

Say,  that  gave  me  the  backache.  "See  here, 
Woodie,"  says  I,  lookin'  as  wicked  as  I  knew  how, 
"  you  sing  or  there'll  be  trouble !  Hit  'er  up,  now ! ' ' 

That  fetched  him.  He  opened  his  face  like  he'd 
swallowed  something  bitter,  made  one  or  two  false 
starts,  and  strikes  up  "God  save  the  King."  I 
didn't  know  the  words  to  that,  so  I  makes  a  stab 
at  "Everybody  Works  but  Father,"  and  Sadie 
tackles  somethin'  else. 

For  a  trio  that  was  the  limit.  The  kids  hadn't 
seemed  to  mind  the  thunder  and  lightnin'  a  whole 
lot,  but  when  that  three-cornered  symphony  of 
ours  cut  loose  they  begins  to  look  wild.  Some 
of  'em  was  diggin'  their  fists  into  their  eyes  and 
preparin'  to  leak  brine,  when  all  of  a  sudden  Woodie 
gets  into  his  stride  and  lets  go  of  three  or  four 
notes  that  sounded  as  if  they  might  belong  to- 
gether. 

That  seemed  to  cheer  those  youngsters  up  a  lot. 
One  or  two  pipes  up,  kind  of  scared  and  trembly, 


SHORTY  McCABE 


259 


but  hangin'  onto  the  tune,  and  the  next  thing  we 
knew  they  was  all  at  it,  givin'  us  "My  Country 
'Tis  of  Thee"  in  as  fine  shape  as  you'd  want  to 
hear.  We  quit  then,  and  listened.  They  followed 
up  with  a  couple  of  good  old  hymns  and,  if  I 
hadn't  been  afloat  from  my  shoes  up,  I  might  have 
enjoyed  the  program.  It  was  a  good  exhibition  of 
nerve,  too.  Most  kids  of  that  size  would  have 
gone  up  in  the  air  and  howled  blue  murder.  But 
they  didn't  even  show  white  around  the  gills. 

Inside  of  ten  minutes  it  was  all  over.  The 
shower  had  moved  off  up  into  Connecticut,  where 
maybe  it  was  wanted  worse,  and  we  got  our 
heads  together  to  map  out  the  next  act.  Sadie 
had  the  say.  She  was  for  takin'  the  kids  over  to 
the  swell  yacht  club  there,  and  waitin'  until  the 
nurses  or  some  one  else  came  to  take  'em  off  our 
hands.  That  suited  me;  but  when  it  came  to 
gettin'  Captain  Sir  Hunter  to  march  up  front  and 
set  the  pace,  he  made  a  strong  kick. 

"Oh,  by  Jove,  now!"  says  he,  "I  couldn't 
think  of  it.  Why,  I've  been  a  guest  here,  y'know, 
and  I  might  meet  some  of  the  fellows." 

"What  luck!"  says  Sadie.  "That'll  be  lovely 
if  you  do." 

"You  come  along,  Woodie,"  says  I.  "We've 
got  our  orders." 

He  might  have  been  a  stiff-lookin'  Englishman 


260  SHORTY  McCABE 

before,  but  he  was  limp  enough  now.  He  looked 
like  a  linen  collar  that  had  been  through  the 
wash  and  hadn't  reached  the  starch  tub.  His 
coat-tails  was  still  drippin'  water,  and  when  he 
walked  it  sounded  like  some  one  was  moppin' 
up  a  marble  floor. 

"Only  fancy  what  they'll  think!"  he  kept 
sayin'  to  himself  as  we  got  under  way. 

"They'll  take  you  for  an  anti-race-suicide 
club,"  says  I;  "so  brace  up." 

We  hadn't  more'n  struck  the  club-house  porch, 
and  the  steward  had  rushed  out  to  drive  us  away, 
when  Sadie  gives  another  one  of  them  squeals  that 
means  she's  sighted  something  good. 

"Oh,  there's  the  Dixie  Girl!"  says  she. 

"You  must  have  'em  bad,"  says  I.  "I  don't 
see  any  girl." 

"The  yacht!"  says  she,  pointin'  to  the  end  of 
the  dock.  "That  big  white  one.  It's  Mrs. 
Brinley  Cubbs'  Dixie  Girl.  You  wait  here  until 
I  see  if  she's  aboard/'  and  off  she  goes. 

So  we  lined  up  in  front  to  wait,  the  Incubators 
never  takin'  their  eyes  off'n  Woodie,  and  him  as 
pink  as  a  sportin'  extra,  and  sayin'  things  under 
his  breath.  Every  time  he  took  a  hitch  sideways 
the  whole  line  dressed.  All  hands  from  the  club 
turned  out  to  see  the  show,  and  the  rockin'-chair 
skippers  made  funny  cracks  at  us. 


SHORTY  McCABE 


261 


"Ahoy  the  nursery !"  says  one  guy.  "Where 
you  bound  for?" 

"Ask  popper,"  says  I.    "He's  got  the  tickets." 

Woodie  kept  his  face  turned  and  his  jaw  shut, 
and  if  he  had  any  friends  in  the  crowd  I  guess 
they  didn't  spot  him.  I'll  bet  he  wa'n't  sorry 
when  Sadie  shows  up  on  deck  and  waves  for  us 
to  come  on. 

Mrs.  Brinley  Cubbs  was  there,  all  right.  She  was 
a  tall,  loppy  kind  of  female,  ready  to  gush  over  any- 
thing. As  well  as  I  could  size  up  the  game,  she 
was  one  of  the  near-swells,  with  plenty  of  gilt  but 
not  enough  sense  to  use  it  right.  Her  feelin's  were 
in  good  workin'  order  though,  and  she  was  willin' 
to  listen  to  any  program  that  Sadie  had  on  hand. 

"Bring  the  little  dears  right  aboard,"  says  she, 
"  and  we'll  have  them  home  before  dark.  Why, 
Sir  Hunter,  is  it  really  you?" 

"I'm  not  altogether  sure,  "says  Woodie,  "whether 
it's  I  or  not,"  and  he  made  a  dive  to  get  below. 

Well,  say,  that  was  a  yacht  and  a  half,  that 
Dixie  Girl!  The  inside  of  her  was  slicker'n  any 
parlor  car  you  ever  saw.  While  they  was  gettin' 
up  steam,  and  all  the  way  down  to  the  East 
river,  Mrs.  Cubbs  had  the  hired  hands  luggin' 
up  everything  eatable  they  could  find,  from 
chicken  salad  to  ice-cream,  and  we  all  took  a  hand 
passin'  it  out  to  that  Incubator  bunch. 


262  SHORTY  McCABE 

They  knew  what  grub  was,  yes,  yes!  There 
wasn't  any  holdin'  back  for  an  imitation  cop  to 
give  the  signal.  The  way  they  did  stow  in  good 
things  that  they'd  probably  never  dreamed  about 
before  was  enough  to  make  a  man  wish  he  had 
John  D.'s  pile  and  Jake  Kiis's  heart.  I  forgot  all 
about  bein'  wet,  and  so  did  Woodie.  To  see  him 
jugglin'  stacks  of  loaded  plates  you'd  think  he'd 
graduated  from  a  ham-and  factory.  He  seemed  to 
like  it,  too,  and  he  was  wearin'  what  passes  for 
a  grin  among  the  English  aristocracy.  By  the 
time  we  got  to  the  dock  at  East  34th-st.  there 
was  more  solid  comfort  and  stomach-ache  in 
that  cabin  than  it'll  hold  again  in  a  thousand 
years. 

Sadie  had  me  go  ashore  and  telephone  for  two 
of  them  big  rubber-neck  wagons.  That  gave  us 
time  to  get  the  sleepers  woke  up  and  arrange  'em 
on  the  dock.  Just  as  we  was  gettin'  the  last  of 
the  kids  loaded  in  for  their  ride  up  to  the  Home, 
a  roundsman  shows  up  with  two  cops. 

"Where  do  you  kids  belong?"  he  sings  out. 

With  that  there  comes  a  howl,  and  the  whole 
bunch  yells: 

Hot  pertater — cold  termater — alligater — Rome ! 
We're  the  girls  from  the  Incubator  Home! 

"Caught  with  the  goods!"  says  he,  turnin'  to 
the  Cap'n  and  me.  "You're  arrested  for  whole- 


SHORTY  McCABE 


263 


sale  kidnappin'.  There's  a  general  alarm  out 
for  youse." 

"Ah,  back  to  the  goats!"  says  I.  "You  don't 
think  we  look  nutty  enough  to  steal  a  whole 
orphan  asylum,  do  you,  Rounds?" 

"I  wouldn't  trust  either  of  you  alone  with  a 
brick  block,"  says  he.  "And  your  side  partner 
with  the  Salvation  Army  coat  on  looks  like  a 
yegg  man  to  me." 

"Now  will  you  be  nice,  Cap?"  says  I. 

At  this  Sadie  and  Mrs.  Cubbs  tries  to  butt  in, 
but  that  roundsman  had  a  head  like  a  choppin' 
block.  He  said  the  two  nurses  had  come  to  town 
and  reported  that  they'd  been  held  up  in  the  woods 
and  that  all  the  kids  had  been  swiped.  As  Woodie 
fitted  one  of  the  descriptions,  we  had  to  go  to  the 
station,  that  was  all  there  was  about  it. 

And  say,  if  the  Sarge  hadn't  happened  to  have 
been  one  of  my  old  backers,  we'd  have  put  in  the 
night  with  the  drunk  and  disorderlies.  Course, 
when  I  tells  me  little  tale,  the  Sarge  give  me  the 
ha-ha  and  scratches  our  names  off  the  book.  We 
didn't  lose  any  time  either,  in  hittin'  the  Studio, 
where  there  was  a  hot  bath  and  dry  towels. 

But  paste  this  in  your  Panama:  Next  time  me 
and  Woodie  goes  out  to  rescue  the  fatherless,  we 
takes  along  our  raincoats.  We've  shook  hands 
on  that. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

How's  Woodie  and  Sadie  comin'  on?  Ah,  say! 
you  don't  want  to  take  the  things  she  does  too 
serious.  It's  got  to  be  a  real  live  one  that  interests 
Sadie.  And,  anyway,  Woodie's  willing  to  take 
oath  that  she  put  up  a  job  on  him.  So  it's  all  off. 

And  I  guess  I  ain't  so  popular  with  her  as  I  might 
be.  Anyway,  I  wouldn't  blame  her,  after  the 
exhibition  I  made  the  other  night,  for  classin'  me 
with  the  phonies.  It  was  trouble  I  hunted  up  all 
by  myself. 

Say,  if  I  hadn't  been  havin'  a  dopey  streak  I'd 
a  known  something  was  about  due.  There  hadn't 
a  thing  happened  to  me  for  more'n  a  week,  when 
Pinckney  blows  into  the  Studio  one  mornin',  just 
casual  like,  as  if  he'd  only  come  in  'cause  he  found 
the  door  open.  That  should  have  put  me  leary, 
but  it  didn't.  I  gives  him  the  hail,  and  tells  him 
he's  lookin'  like  a  pink  just  off  the  ice. 

" Shorty,"  says  he,  "how  are  you  on  charity?" 

"I'm  a  cinch,"  says  I.  "Every  panhandler 
north  of  Madison  Square  knows  he  can  work  me 
for  a  beer  check  any  time  he  can  run  me  down." 

"  Then  you'll  be  glad  to  exercise  your  talents  in 
aid  of  a  worthy  cause,"  says  he. 

"It  don't  follow,"  says  I.    "The  deservin'  poor 


SHORTY  McCABE  265 

I  passes  up.  There's  too  much  done  for  'em,  as  it 
is.  It's  the  unworthy  kind  that  wins  my  coin. 
They  enjoys  it  more  and  has  a  harder  time  get- 
tin'  it." 

"Your  logic  is  good,  Shorty,"  says  he,  "and  I 
think  I  agree  with  your  sentiments.  But  this  is  a 
case  where  charity  is  only  an  excuse.  The  ladies 
out  at  Rockywold  are  getting  up  an  affair  for  the 
benefit  of  something  or  other,  no  one  seems  to  know 
just  what,  and  they've  put  you  down  for  a  little 
bag  punching  and  club  swinging." 

"Then  wire  'em  to  scratch  the  entry,"  says  I. 
"I  don't  make  any  orchestra  circle  plays  that  I 
can  dodge,  and  when  it  comes  to  fightin'  the  leather 
before  a  bunch  of  peacock  millinery  I  renigs  every 
time.  I'll  put  on  Swifty  Joe  as  a  sub.,  if  you've 
got  to  have  some  one." 

Pinckney  shook  his  head  at  that.  "No,"  says 
he,  "  I'll  tell  Sadie  she  must  leave  you  off  the  pro- 
gram." 

"  Hold  on,"  says  I.  "  Was  it  Sadie  billed  me  for 
this  stunt?" 

He  said  it  was. 

"Then  I'm  on  the  job,"  says  I.  "Oh,  you  can 
grin  your  ears  off,  I  don't  care." 

Well,  that  was  what  fetched  me  out  to  Rocky- 
wold  on  a  Friday  night,  when  I  had  a  right  to  be 
watchin'  the  amateur  try-outs  at  the  Marlborough 


266  SHORTY  McCABE 

Club  instead.  The  show  wasn't  until  Saturday 
evenin',  but  Pinckney  said  I  ought  to  be  there  for 
the  dress  rehearsal. 

"There's  only  about  a  dozen  guests  there  now, 
so  you  needn't  get  skittish,"  says  he. 

And  a  dozen  don't  go  far  towards  fillin'  up  a 
place  like  Rocky  wold.  Say,  if  I  had  the  price,  I'd 
like  a  shack  where  I  could  take  care  of  more  or  less 
comp'ny  without  settin'  up  cot  beds,  but  I'll  be 
blistered  if  I  can  see  the  fun  in  runnin'  a  free  hotel 
like  that. 

These  amateur  shows  are  apt  to  be  pretty  punk, 
but  I  could  see  that,  barrin'  myself,  there  was  a  fair 
aggregation  of  talent  on  hand.  The  star  was  a 
googoo-eyed  girl  who  did  a  barefoot  specialty,  re- 
citin'  pomes  to  music,  and  accompanyin'  herself 
with  a  kind  of  parlor  hoochee-coochee  that  would 
have  drawn  capacity  houses  at  Dreamland.  Then 
there  was  a  pretty  boy  who  could  do  things  to  the 
piano,  a  funeral-faced  duck  that  could  tell  funny 
stories,  and  a  bunch  of  six  or  eight  likely-lookin' 
ladies  and  gents  who'd  laid  themselves  out  to 
prance  through  what  they  called  a  minuet.  Lastly 
there  was  me  an'  Miriam. 

She  was  one  of  these  limp,  shingle-chested  girls, 
Miriam  was.  She  didn't  have  much  to  say,  so  I 
didn't  take  any  particular  notice  of  her.  But  at 
the  rehearsal  I  got  next  to  the  fact  that  she  could 


SHORTY  McCABE  267 

tease  music  out  of  a  violin  in  great  style.  It  was 
all  right  if  you  shut  your  eyes,  for  Miriam  wasn't 
what  you'd  call  a  pastel.  She  was  built  a  good 
deal  on  the  lines  of  an  L-road  pillar,  but  that  didn't 
bar  her  from  wearin'  one  of  these  short-sleeved 
square-necked,  girly-girly  dresses  that  didn't  leave 
you  much  in  doubt  as  to  her  framework. 

Yes,  Miriam  could  have  stood  a  few  well-placed 
pads.  She'd  lived  long  enough  to  have  found  that 
out,  too,  but  they  was  missin'.  I  should  guess  that 
Miriam  had  begun  exhibitin'  her  collar-bones  to 
society  about  the  time  poor  old  John  L.  fought  the 
battle  of  New  Orleans.  Yet  when  she  snuggled 
the  butt  end  of  that  violin  down  under  her  chin 
and  squinted  at  you  across  the  bridge,  she  had  all 
the  motions  of  a  high-school  girl. 

'Course,  I  didn't  dope  all  this  out  to  myself  at  the 
time;  for,  as  I  was  sayin',  I  didn't  size  her  up 
special.  But  it  all  came  to  me  afterwards — yes,  yes ! 

The  excitement  broke  loose  along  about  the  mid- 
dle of  that  first  night.  I'd  turned  in  about  an  hour 
before,  and  I  was  poundin'  my  ear  like  a  circus 
hand  on  a  Sunday  lay-over,  when  I  hears  the 
trouble  cry.  First  off  I  wasn't  goin'  to  do  any 
more  than  turn  over  and  get  a  fresh  hold  on  the 
mattress,  for  I  ain't  much  on  routin'  out  for  fires 
unless  I  feel  the  head-board  gettin'  hot.  But 
then  I  wakes  up  enough  to  remember  that  Rocky- 


268  SHORTY  McCABE 

wold  is  a  long  ways  outside  the  metropolitan  fire 
district,  and  I  begins  to  throw  clothes  onto  myself. 

Inside  of  two  minutes  I  was  outdoors  lookin' 
for  a  chance  to  win  a  Carnegie  medal.  There 
wasn't  any  show  at  all,  though.  The  fire,  what 
there  was  of  it,  was  in  the  kitchen,  in  the  basement 
of  the  wing  where  the  help  stays.  Half  a  dozen 
stablemen  had  put  it  out  with  the  garden  hose, 
and  were  finishin'  the  job  by  soakin'  one  of  the 
cooks,  when  I  showed  up. 

I  watched  'em  for  a  while,  and  then  started  back 
to  my  room.  Somehow  I  got  twisted  up  in  the 
shrubbery,  and  instead  of  goin'  back  the  way  I 
came,  I  gets  around  on  the  other  corner.  Just  about 
then  a  ground-floor  window  is  shoved  up,  and  a 
female  in  white  floats  out  on  a  little  stone  balcony. 
She  waves  her  arms  and  begins  to  call  for  help. 

"You're  late,"  says  I.    " It's  all  over." 

That  didn't  satisfy  her  at  all,  though.  Some 
smoke  and  steam  was  still  comin'  from  the  far  side 
of  the  buildin',  and  it  was  bio  win'  in  .through 
another  window. 

"Help,  help!"  she  squeals.  "Help,  before  I 
jump!" 

"I  wouldn't,"  says  I,  "they've  gone  home  with 
the  life  net." 

"The  smoke,  the  smoke!"  says  she.  "Oh,  I 
must  jump!" 


SHORTY  McCABE  269 

"Well,  if  you've  got  the  jumpin'  fit,"  says  I, 
"jump  ahead;  but  if  you  can  hold  yourself  in  a 
minute,  I'll  bring  a  step-ladder." 

"  Then  hurry,  please  hurry ! "  says  she,  and  starts 
to  climb  up  on  the  edge  of  the  balcony. 

It  wa'n't  more'n  six  feet  to  the  turf  anyway,  and 
it  wouldn't  have  been  any  killing  matter  if  she  had 
jumped,  less'n  she'd  landed  on  her  neck;  but  she 
was  as  looney  as  if  she'd  been  standin'  on  top  of  the 
Flatiron  Buildin'.  Bein'  as  how  I'd  forgot  to  bring 
a  step-ladder  with  me,  I  chases  around  after  some- 
thing she  could  come  down  on.  The  moon  wasn't 
shinin'  very  bright  though,  and  there  didn't  seem 
to  be  any  boxes  or  barrels  lyin'  around  loose,  so 
I  wasn't  makin'  much  headway.  But  after  awhile 
I  gets  hold  of  something  that  was  the  very  ticket. 
It  was  one  of  these  wooden  stands  for  flower-pots. 
I  lugs  that  over  and  sets  it  up  under  the  window. 

"Now  if  you'll  just  slide  down  onto  that  easy," 
says  I,  "your  life  is  saved." 

She  looks  at  it  once,  and  begins  to  flop  her  arms 
and  take  on  again.  "I  never  can  do  it,  I  know 
I  can't!"  says  she.  "I'll  fall,  I'll  fall!" 

Well,  it  was  a  case  of  Shorty  McCabe  to  the 
rescue,  after  all.  "Coming  up!"  says  I,  and  hops 
on  the  thing,  holdin'  out  me  paws. 

She  didn't  need  any  more  coaxin' .  She  scrabbled 
over  that  balcony  rail  and  got  a  shoulder  clutch 


270  SHORTY  McCABE 

on  me  that  you  couldn't  have  loosened  with  a  crow- 
bar. I  gathered  in  the  rest  of  her  with  my  left  hand 
and  steadied  myself  with  the  other.  Lucky  she 
wasn't  a  heavy-weight,  or  that  pot-holder  wouldn't 
have  stood  the  strain.  It  creaked  some  as  we 
went  down,  but  it  held  together. 

"Street  floor,  all  out!"  says  I,  as  I  hit  the  grass. 

But  that  didn't  even  get  a  wiggle  out  of  her. 

"It's  all  over,"  says  I.    "You're  rescued." 

Talk  about  your  cling-stones!  She  was  it. 
Never  a  move.  I  couldn't  tell  whether  she'd 
fainted,  or  was  too  scared  to  let  go.  But  it  was 
up  to  me  to  do  something.  I  couldn't  stand  there 
for  the  rest  of  the  night  holdin'  a  strange  lady 
draped  the  way  she  was,  and  it  didn't  seem  to  be 
just  the  right  thing  to  sit  down  to  it.  Besides, 
one  of  her  elbows  was  tryin'  to  puncture  my  right 
lung. 

"  If  you're  over  the  fire  panic,  I'll  try  and  hoist 
you  back  through  the  window,  miss,"  says  I. 

She  wasn't  ready  to  do  any  conversin'  then, 
though.  She  was  just  holdin'  onto  me  like  I  was 
too  good  a  thing  to  let  slip. 

"  Well,  it  looks  to  me  as  though  we'd  got  to  make 
a  front  entrance,"  says  I;  "  but  I  hope  the  audience 
'11  be  slim,"  and  with  that  I  starts  to  finish  the  lap 
around  the  house  and  make  for  the  double  doors. 

I've  carried  weight  before,  but  never  that  kind, 


One  of  her  elbows  was  tryin'  to  puncture  my  right   lung. 


:        :.--• 


SHORTY  McCABE 


271 


and  it  seemed  like  that  blamed  house  was  as  big 
around  as  a  city  block.  Once  or  twice  we  butted 
into  the  bushes,  and  another  time  I  near  tumbled 
the  two  of  us  into  the  pool  of  a  fountain;  but  after 
awhile  I  struck  the  front  porch,  some  out  of  breath, 
and  with  a  few  wisps  of  black  hair  in  my  eyes,  but 
still  in  the  game.  The  lady  hadn't  made  a  mur- 
mur, and  she  hadn't  slacked  her  clinch. 

I  was  hopin'  to  slide  in  quiet,  without  bein' 
spotted  by  anyone,  for  most  of  the  women  had 
gone  back  to  bed,  and  I  could  hear  the  men  down 
in  the  billiard  room  clickin'  glasses  over  an  extra 
dream-soother.  Luck  was  against  me,  though. 
Right  under  the  newel-post  light  stood  Pinckney, 
wearin'  a  silk  pajama  coat  oustide  of  a  pair  of  black 
broadcloth  trousers.  When  he  sees  me  and  what 
I  was  luggin'  he  looks  kind  of  pleased. 

"Hello,  Shorty!"  says  he.  "What  have  you 
there?" 

"  It  might  be  a  porous-plaster,  by  the  way  it 
sticks,"  says  I,  "  but  it  ain't.  It's  a  lady  I've  been 
rescuin'  while  the  rest  of  you  guys  was  standin' 
around  watchin'  a  wet  cook." 

"By  Jove!"  says  Pinckney,  stepphV  up  and 
takin'  a  close  look.  "  Miriam ! " 

"Thanks,"  says  I.  "We  ain't  been  introduced 
yet.  Do  you  mind  unhookin'  her  fingers  from  the 
back  of  my  neck?" 


272  SHORTY  McCABE 

But  all  he  did  was  to  stand  there  with  his  mouth 
corners  working  and  them  black  eyes  of  his  winkin7 
like  a  pair  of  arc  lights. 

"It's  too  pretty  a  picture  to  spoil,"  says  he. 
"So  touching!  Reminds  me  of  Andromeda  and 
What's-his-name.  Just  keep  that  pose  a  minute, 
will  you,  until  I  bring  up  the  rest  of  the  fellows?" 

"You'll  bring  up  nothin',"  says  I,  reachin'  out 
with  one  hand  and  gettin'  a  grip  on  the  collar  of 
his  silk  jacket.  "  Now  get  busy,  or  off  comes  your 
kimono." 

With  that  he  quits  kiddin'  and  goes  to  work  on 
Miriam's  fingers,  and  in  about  a  minute  she  gives 
a  little  jump,  like  she'd  just  heard  the  breakfast 
bell. 

"Why!"  says  she.    "Where  am  I?" 

"Right  where  you  landed  five  minutes  ago," 
says  I. 

Then  she  shudders  all  over  and  squeals:  "Oh! 
A  man!  A  man!" 

" Sure,"  says  I,  "you  didn't  take  me  for  a  Morris 
chair,  did  you?" 

Miriam  didn't  linger  for  any  more.  She  lets 
loose  a  holler  that  near  splits  me  ear  open,  slides 
down  so  fast  that  her  bare  tootsies  hit  the  floor  with 
a  spat,  grabs  her  what-d'ye-call-it  up  away  from 
her  ankles  with  both  hands,  and  sprints  down  the 
hall  as  if  she  was  makin'  for  the  last  car. 


SHORTY  McCABE 


273 


"Say,"  says  I,  gettin'  me  neck  out  of  crook,  "I 
wish  that  thought  had  come  to  her  sooner.  I  feel 
as  if  I'd  been  squeezed  by  a  pair  of  ice-tongs.  If 
she  can  hug  like  that  in  her  sleep,  what  could  she 
do  when  she  was  wide  awake?" 

"  Shorty,"  says  Pinckney,  with  his  face  as  solemn 
as  a  preacher's,  "I'm  pained  and  astonished  at 
this." 

"  Me,  too,"  says  I. 

"Don't  jest,"  says  he.  "This  looks  to  me  like 
an  attempt  at  kidnapping." 

"If  you'd  had  that  grip  on  you,  I  guess  you'd 
have  thought  it  was  the  real  thing,"  says  I.  "  But 
here's  a  little  tip  I  want  to  pass  on  to  you :  Don't 
go  spreadin'  this  josh  business  around  the  lot,  or 
your  show'll  be  minus  a  star  act.  I'll  stand  for  all 
the  private  kiddin'  you  can  hand  out,  but  I've  got 
my  objections  to  playin'  a  public  joke-book  part. 
Now,  will  you  quit?" 

He  was  mighty  disappointed  at  bavin'  to  do  it, 
but  he  gave  his  word,  and  I  makes  tracks  up  stairs, 
glad  enough  to  be  let  off  so  easy. 

"It  was  a  queer  kind  of  a  faint,  if  that's  what 
it  was,"  says  I  to  myself.  "  IU1  bet  I  fights  shy  of 
anything  more  of  the  kind  that  I  sees  comin'  my 
may.  This  is  what  I  gets  for  strayin'  so  far  from 
Broadway." 

But  a  little  thing  like  that  don't  interfere  with 
18 


274  SHORTY  McCABE 

my  sleeping  when  slumber's  on  the  card,  and  I 
proceeds  to  tear  off  what  was  due  me  on  the  eight- 
hour  sched.,  and  maybe  a  little  more. 

I  didn't  get  a  sight  of  Miriam  all  day  long.  Not 
that  I  was  strainin'  my  eyes  any.  There  was  some- 
thin'  better  to  look  at — Sadie,  for  instance.  'Course 
Pinckney  was  bossin'  the  show,  but  she  was  bossin' 
him,  and  anyone  else  that  was  handy.  They  were 
goin'  to  pull  off  the  racket  in  the  ball-room,  and 
Sadie  found  a  lot  to  do  to  it.  She's  a  hummer, 
Sadie  is.  Maybe  she  wa'n't  brought  up  among 
bow-legged  English  butlers  and  a  lot  of  Swedish 
maids,  but  she's  learned  the  trick  of  gettin'  'em  to 
break  their  necks  for  her  whenever  she  says  the 
word. 

All  the  forenoon  more  folks  kept  comin'  on  every 
train,  and  there  was  two  rows  of  them  big,  deep- 
breathin'  tourin'  cars  in  the  stables.  By  dinner- 
time Rockywold  looked  like  a  Saratoga  hotel  durin' 
the  racin'  season.  Chappies  were  play  in'  lawn  ten- 
nis, and  luggin'  golf  bags  around,  and  keepin'  the 
ivories  rollin',  while  the  front  walks  and  porches 
might  have  been  Fifth-ave.  on  a  Monday  afternoon, 
from  the  dry-goods  that  was  bein'  sported  there. 

I  stowed  myself  away  in  a  corner  of  the  billiard- 
room  and  didn't  mix  much,  but  I  was  takin'  it  all 
in.  Not  that  I  was  feelin'  lonesome,  or  anything 
like  that.  I  likes  to  see  any  sort  of  fun,  even  if  it 


SHORTY  McCABE  275 

ain't  just  my  kind.  And  besides,  there  was  more 
or  less  in  the  bunch  that  I  knew  first-rate.  But  I 
don't  care  about  pushin'  to  the  front  until  I  gets 
the  call. 

So  everything  runs  along  smooth,  and  I  was 
figurin'  on  makin'  a  late  train  down  to  Primrose 
Park  after  I'd  done  my  little  turn.  I  didn't  care 
much  about  seein'  the  show,  so  I  stuck  to  the 
dressin'-room  until  they  sends  word  that  it  was 
my  next.  We'd  had  the  punchin'-bag  apparatus 
rigged  up  in  the  forenoon,  and  there  wasn't  any- 
thing left  to  be  done  but  hook  on  the  leather  and 
spread  out  the  mat. 

Pinckney  was  doin'  the  announcing  and  the 
jolly  he  gives  me  before  he  lugs  me  out  was  some- 
thin'  fierce.  I  reckon  I  was  blushin'  some  when  I 
went  on.  I  took  just  one  squint  at  the  mob  and 
felt  a  chill  down  my  spine.  Say,  it's  one  thing  to 
step  up  before  a  gang  of  sports  in  a  hall,  and  another 
to  prance  out  in  ring  clothes  on  a  platform  in  front 
of  two  or  three  hundred  real  ladies  and  gents 
wearin'  their  evenin'  togs. 

There  I  was,  though,  and  the  crowd  doin'  the 
hurrah  act  for  all  it  was  worth.  When  I  gets  the 
bag  goin'  I  feels  better,  and  whatever  grouch  I  has 
against  Pinckney  for  not  lettin'  me  wear  my  gym. 
suit  I  puts  into  short-arm  punches  on  the  pigskin. 
The  stunt  seemed  to  take.  I  could  tell  that  by  the 


276  SHORTY  McGABE 

buzz  that  came  over  the  footlights.  No  matter 
what  you're  doin',  whether  it's  makin'  campaign 
speeches,  or  stoppin'  a  comer  in  six  rounds,  it's 
always  a  help  to  know  that  you've  got  the  crowd 
with  you. 

By  the  time  I'd  got  well  warmed  up,  and  was 
thro  win'  in  all  the  flourishes  that's  been  invented — 
double  ducks,  sidestep  and  swing,  shoulder  work, 
and  so  on — I  felt  real  chipper.  I  makes  a  grand- 
stand finish,  and  then  has  the  nerve  to  face  the 
audience  and  do  a  matinee  bend.  As  I  did  that  I 
gets  my  lamps  fixed  on  some  one  in  the  front  row. 

Say,  if  you've  ever  done  much  on  the  platform, 
you  know  how  sometimes  you'll  get  a  squint  at  a 
pair  of  eyes  down  front  and  can't  get  yourself  away 
from  'em  after  that.  Well,  that  was  the  way  with 
me  then.  There  was  rows  and  rows  of  faces  that 
all  looked  alike,  but  this  one  phiz  seemed  to  stand 
right  out;  and  to  save  me,  all  I  could  do  was  to 
stare  back. 

It  belonged  to  Miriam.  She  had  her  chin  tucked 
down,  and  her  head  canted  to  one  side,  and  her 
mouth  puckered  into  the  mushiest  kind  of  a  grin 
you  ever  saw.  Her  eyes  were  rolled  up  real  kitten- 
ish, too.  Oh,  it  was  a  combination  to  make  a  man 
strike  his  grandmother,  that  look  she  was  sendin' 
up  to  me.  I  wanted  to  dodge  it  and  pick  up  an- 
other, but  there  was  no  more  gettin'  away  from  it 


SHORTY  McCABE 


277 


than  as  if  I  was  bein'  followed  by  a  search-light. 
Worst  of  it 'was,  I  could  feel  myself  grinnin'  back 
at  her  just  as  mushy.  I  was  gettin'  sillier  every 
breath,  and  I  might  have  got  as  far  as  bio  win'  kisses 
at  her  if  I  hadn't  pulled  myself  together  and 
begun  to  juggle  the  Indian  clubs,  for  the  second 
half  of  my  act. 

All  the  ginger  had  faded  out  of  me,  though,  and 
I  cut  the  rest  of  it  mighty  short.  As  I  comes  off, 
Sadie  grabs  me  and  begins  to  tell  me  what  a  hit  I'd 
made,  and  how  tickled  she  was,  but  I  shakes  her 
off. 

"What's  your  great  rush,  Shorty?"  says  she. 

"I've  got  a  date  to  fill  down  the  road,"  says  I, 
and  I  makes  a  quick  break  for  the  dressin'-room. 
Honest,  I  was  gettin'  rattled  for  fear  if  Miriam 
should  get  another  look  at  me  she'd  mesmerize  me 
so  I'd  never  wake  up.  I  skins  into  my  sack-suit, 
leaves  word  to  have  my  bag  expressed  to  town,  and 
was  just  about  to  make  a  sudden  exit  when  I 
bumps  into  some  one  at  the  front  door. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  McCabe !  How  did  you  know  where  to 
find  me?"  says  she. 

Say,  I'll  give  you  one  guess.  Sure,  it  was 
Miriam  again.  She  was  got  up  expensive,  all 
real  lace  and  first- water  sparks,  and  just  as  hand- 
some as  a  towel  rack.  But  the  minute  she  turns 
on  that  gushy  look  I'm  nailed  to  the  spot,  same 


278  SHORTY  McCABE 

as  the  rabbits  they  feed  to  the  boa-constrictors  up 
at  the  Zoo. 

"  You  didn't  think  you  could  lose  me  so  easy, 
did  you?"  says  I. 

"What  a  persistent  fellow  you  are!"  says  she. 
"But,  after  you  behaved  so  heroically  last  night, 
I  suppose  I  must  forgive  you.  Wasn't  it  silly  of 
me  to  be  so  frightened?" 

"Oh,  well,"  says  I,  "the  best  of  us  is  apt  to  go 
off  our  nut  sometimes." 

"  How  sweet  of  you  to  put  it  that  way ! "  says  she, 
and  then  she  uncorks  a  giggle.  "You  did  carry 
me  so  nicely,  too." 

That  was  a  sample.  I  wouldn't  go  on  and  give 
you  the  whole  book  of  the  opera  for  money.  It's 
somethin'  I'm  tryin'  to  forget.  But  we  swapped 
that  kind  of  slush  for  near  half  an  hour,  and  when 
the  show  broke  up  and  the  crowd  began  to  swarm 
towards  the  buffet  lunch,  we  was  sittin'  out  on  the 
porch  in  the  moonlight,  still  at  it.  Pinckney  says 
we  was  holdin'  hands  and  gazin'  at  each  other 
like  a  couple  of  spoons  in  the  park.  Maybe  we 
was;  I  wouldn't  swear  different. 

All  I  know  is  that  after  a  while  I  looks  up  and 
sees  Sadie  standin'  there  pipin'  us  off,  with  her 
nose  in  the  air  and  the  heat  lightnin'  kind  of 
glimmerin'  in  them  blue  eyes  of  hers.  The  spell 
was  broke  quicker 'n  when  the  curtain  goes  down 


SHORTY  McCABE  279 

and  the  ushers  open  the  lobby  doors.  'Course, 
Sadie's  nothin'  more'n  an  old  friend  of  mine,  and 
I'm  no  more  to  her,  but  you  see  it  hadn't  been  so 
long  ago  that  I'd  been  tellin'  her  what  a  sweat  I 
was  in  to  get  away.  She  never  said  a  word,  only 
just  sticks  her  chin  up  and  laughs,  and  then  goes 
on. 

Next  minute  there  shows  up  in  front  of  us  a  fat 
old  lady,  with  three  chins  and  a  waist  like  a  clothes 
hamper. 

"  Miriam ! "  says  she,  and  there  was  wire  nails  and 
broken  glass  in  the  way  she  said  it,  "Miriam,  I 
think  it  was  high  time  you  retired." 

"Bully  for  you,  old  girl!"  I  sings  out.  "And 
say,  I'll  give  you  a  dollar  if  you'll  lock  her  in  until 
I  can  get  away." 

Perhaps  that  was  a  low-down  thing  to  say,  but 
I  couldn't  help  lettin'  it  come.  I  didn't  wait  for 
any  more  remarks  from  either  of  'em,  but  I  grabs 
my  hat  and  makes  a  dash  across  lots.  I  never 
stopped  runnin'  until  I  fetched  the  station,  and  it 
wasn't  until  after  the  train  pulled  out  that  I 
breathed  real  easy. 

Bein'  safe  here  in  the  Studio,  with  Swifty  on 
guard,  I  might  grin  at  the  whole  thing,  if  it  wasn't 
for  that  laugh  of  Sadie's.  That  cut  in  deep. 
Two  or  three  days  later  I  hears  from  Pinckney. 

"Shorty,"  says  he,  "you're  a  wonder.    I  fancy 


2&>  SHORTY  McCABE 

you  don't  know  what  you  did  in  getting  so  chummy 
with  Miriam  under  the  very  nose  of  that  old 
watch-dog  aunt  of  hers.  Why,  I  know  of  fellows 
who've  waited  years  for  that  chance." 

"Back  up!"  says  I.     "She's  a  freak." 

"But  Miriam's  worth  three  or  four  millions," 
says  he. 

"I  don't  care  if  she  owns  a  bond  factory,"  says 
I.  I'm  no  bone  connoisseur,  nor  I  don't  make 
a  specialty  of  collectin'  autumn  leaves.  Do  you 
know  what  I'd  do  if  I  was  her  aunt?" 

"What?"  says  he. 

"  Well,"  says  I,  "I'd  hang  a  red  lantern  on  her." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

You  never  can  tell,  though.  The  next  thing  I 
hears  from  Sadie  is  that  she's  so  tickled  over  that 
Miriam  mix-up  that  she  wakes  up  in  the  night 
to  snicker  at  it. 

That  makes  me  feel  a  lot  easier  in  my  mind, 
and  just  by  way  of  bein'  reckless,  I  starts  out  to 
buy  a  bull  pup.  I'd  have  got  him,  too,  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  Doc  Pinphoodle.  Seein'  the  way 
things  turned  out,  though,  I  don't  bear  no  grudge. 

It  was  the  Doc  I  met  first.  I'd  noticed  him 
driftin'  up  and  down  the  stairs  once  or  twice,  but 
didn't  pipe  him  off  special.  There's  too  many 
freaks  around  42nd-st.  'to  keep  cases  on  all  of  'em. 

But  one  day  about  a  month  ago  I  was  sittin'  in 
the  front  office  here,  gettin'  the  ear-ache  from 
hearing  Swifty  Joe  tell  about  what  he  meant  to 
do  to  Gans  that  last  time,  when  the  door  swings 
open  so  hard  it  most  takes  the  hinges  off,  and  we 
sees  a  streak  of  arms  and  legs  and  tall  hat  makin' 
a  dive  under  the  bed  couch  in  the  corner. 

"They've  most  got  the  range,  Swifty,"  says  I. 
"  Two  feet  to  the  left  and  you'd  been  a  bull's-eye. 
What  you  got  your  mouth  open  so  wide  for? 
Goin'  to  try  to  catch  the  next  one  in  your  teeth?" 

Swifty  didn't  have  time  to  uncork  any  repartee 


282  SHORTY  McCABE 

before  someone  struck  the  landing  outside  like 
they'd  come  down  a  flight  of  foldin'  steps  feet  first, 
and  a  little,  sharp-nosed  woman,  with  purple 
flowers  in  her  hat,  bobs  in  and  squints  once  at 
each  of  us.  Say,  I  don't  want  to  be  looked  at 
often  like  that!  It  felt  like  bein'  sampled  with  a 
cheese  tester. 

"Did  Montgomery  Smith  just  come  in  here?" 
says  she.  "Did  he?  Don't  lie,  now!  Where 
is  he?"  and  the  way  she  jerked  them  little  black 
eyes  around  was  enough  to  tear  holes  in  the 
matting. 

"Lady—"  says  I. 

"Don't  lady  me,  Mr.  Fresh,"  says  she,  throwin' 
the  gimlets  my  way.  "And  tell  that  broken- 
nosed  child  stealer  over  there  to  take  that  monkey 
grin  ofFm  his  face  or  I'll  scratch  his  eyes  out." 

"Hully  chee!"  yells  Swifty,  throwin'  a  back 
somersault  through  the  gym.  door  and  snappin' 
the  lock  on  his  side. 

"Anything  more,  miss?"  says  I.  "We're  here 
to  please." 

"Humph!"  says  she.  "It'd  take  somethin' 
better  than  you  to  please  me." 

"Glad  I  was  born  lucky,"  thinks  I,  but  I  thought 
it  under  my  breath. 

"Is  my  Monty  hiding"  in  that  room?"  says  she, 
jabbin'  a  ringer  at  the  gym. 


SHORTY  McCABE  283 

"Cross  my  heart,  he  ain't/'  says  I. 

"I  don't  believe  you  could  think  quick  enough 
to  lie,"  says  she,  and  with  that  she  flips  out  about 
as  fast  as  she  came  in. 

I  didn't  stir  until  I  hears  her  hit  the  lower  hall. 
Then  I  bolts  the  door,  goes  and  calls  Swifty  down 
off  the  top  of  the  swingin'  rope,  and  we  comes  to 
a  parade  rest  alongside  the  couch. 

"Monty,  dear  Monty,"  says  I,  "the  cyclone's 
passed  out  to  sea.  Come  out  and  give  up  your 
rain  check." 

He  backs  out  feet  first,  climbs  up  on  the  couch, 
and  drops  his  chin  into  his  hands  for  a  minute, 
while  he  gets  over  the  worst  of  the  shock.  Say, 
at  first  sight  he  wa'n't  a  man  you'd  think  any 
woman  would  lose  her  breath  tryin'  to  catch, 
less'n  she  was  his  landlady,  and  that  was  what  I 
figures  out  that  this  female  peace  disturber  was. 

Monty  might  have  been  a  winner  once,  but  it 
was  a  long  spell  back.  Just  then  he  was  some  out 
of  repair.  He  had  a  head  big  enough  for  a  college 
professor,  and  a  crop  of  hair  like  an  herb  doctor, 
but  his  eyes  were  puffy  underneath,  and  you 
could  see  by  the  cafe  au  lait  tint  to  his  face  that 
his  liver'd  been  on  a  long  strike.  He  was  fairly 
thick  through  the  middle,  but  his  legs  didn't 
match  the  rest  of  him.  They  were  too  thin  and 
too  short. 


284  SHORTY  McCABE 

"If  I'd  known  you  was  comin',  I'd  had  the 
scrub  lady  dust  under  there,"  says  I;  "but  it 
won't  need  it  now  for  a  couple  of  weeks." 

He  makes  a  stab  at  sayin'  something,  but  his 
breath  hadn't  come  back  yet.  He  revives  enough 
though,  to  take  a  look  at  his  clothes.  Then  he 
works  his  silk  dicer  up  ofT'm  his  ears,  and  has  a 
peek  at  that.  It  was  a  punky  lid,  all  right,  but 
it  had  saved  a  lot  of  wear  on  his  koko  when  he 
made  that  slide  for  home  plate  and  struck  the 
wall. 

"  Was  this  a  long-distance  run,  or  just  a  hundred- 
yard  sprint?"  says  I.  "Never  mind,  if  it  comes 
hard.  I  don't  blame  you  a  bit  for  side-steppin' 
a  heart  to  heart  talk  with  any  such  a  rough-and- 
ready  converser  as  your  friend.  I'd  do  the  same 
myself." 

He  looks  up  kind  of  grateful  at  that,  and  sticks 
out  a  soft,  lady-like  paw  for  me  to  shake.  Say,  that 
wasn't  such  a  slow  play,  either!  He  was  too  groggy 
to  say  a  word,  but  he  comes  pretty  near  winnin'  me 
right  there.  I  sets  Swif  ty  to  work  on  him  with  the 
whisk-broom,  hands  out  a  glass  of  ice-water,  and  in 
a  minute  or  so  his  voice  comes  back. 

Oh,  yes,  he  had  one.  It  was  a  little  shaky,  but, 
barrin'  that,  it  was  as  smooth  as  mayonnaise.  And 
language!  Why,  just  tellin'  me  how  much  obliged 
he  was,  he  near  stood  the  dictionary  on  its  head. 


SHORTY  McCABE  285 

There  wa'n't  no  doubt  of  his  warm  feelin'  for  me 
by  the  time  he  was  through.  It  was  almost  like 
bein'  adopted  by  a  rich  uncle. 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  says  I.  "You  can  use 
that  couch  any  time  the  disappearin'  fit  comes  on. 
She  was  hot  on  the  trail;  eh,  Monty ?" 

"It  was  all  a  painful,  absurd  error,"  says  he,  "a 
mistaken  identity,  I  presume.  Permit  me  to  make 
myself  known  to  you,"  and  he  shoves  out  his  card. 

Rasmulli  Pinphoodle,  J.  R.  D. — that  was  the  way 
it  read. 

"Long  ways  from  Smith, ain't  it?"  says  I.  "The 
first  of  it  sounds  like  a  Persian  rug." 
;    "  My  Hindu  birth  name,"  says  he. 

"I'd  have  bet  you  wa'n't  a  domestic  filler,"  says 
I.  "  The  Pinphoodle  is  English,  ain't  it?  " 

He  smiles  like  I'd  asked  him  to  split  a  pint  with 
me,  and  says  that  it  was. 

"  But  the  tag  on  the  end — J.  R.  D. — I  passes  up," 
says  I.  "  Don't  stand  for  Judge  of  Rent  Dodgers, 
does  it?" 

"Those  letters,"  says  he,  makin'  another  merry 
face,  "represent  the  symbols  of  my  Vedic  progres- 
sion." 

"If  I'd  stopped  to  think  once  more,  I'd  fetched 
that,"  says  I. 

It  was  a  jolly.  I've  never  had  the  Vedic  pro- 
gression— anyways,  not  had  enough  to  know  it  at 


286  SHORTY  McCABE 

the  time — but  I  wasn't  goin'  to  let  him  stun  me  that 
way. 

Later  on  I  got  next  to  the  fact  that  he  was  some 
kind  of  a  healer,  and  that  the  proper  thing  to  do 
was  to  call  him  Doc.  Seems  he  had  a  four-by-nine 
office  on  the  top  floor  back,  over  the  Studio,  and 
that  he  was  just  startin'  to  introduce  the  Vedic 
stunt  to  New  York.  Mostly  he  worked  the  mail- 
order racket.  He  showed  me  his  ad.  in  the  Sunday 
personal  column,  and  it  was  all  to  the  velvet.  Ac- 
cordin'  to  his  own  specifications  he  was  a  head-liner 
in  the  East  Indian  philosophy  business,  whatever 
that  was.  He'd  just  torn  himself  away  from  the 
crowned  heads  of  Europe  for  an  American  tour,  and 
he  stood  ready  to  ladle  out  advice  to  statesmen, 
tinker  up  broken  hearts,  forecast  the  future,  and 
map  out  the  road  to  Wellville  for  millionaires  who'd 
gone  off  their  feed. 

He  sure  had  a  full  bag  of  tricks  to  draw  from; 
but  I've  noticed  that  the  more  glass  balls  you 
try  to  keep  in  the  air  at  once,  the  surer  you 
are  to  queer  the  act.  And  Pinphoodle  didn't 
look  like  a  gent  that  kept  the  receivin'  teller 
workin'  overtime. 

There  was  something  about  him,  though,  that 
was  kind  of  dignified.  He  was  the  style  of  chap  that 
would  blow  his  last  dime  on  havin'  his  collar  'n' 
cuffs  polished,  and  would  go  without  eatin'  rather 


SHORTY  McCABE  287 

than  frisk  the  free  lunch  at  a  beer  joint.  He  was 
willin'  to  talk  about  anything  but  the  female  with 
the  gimlet  eyes  and  the  keen-cutter  tongue. 

"She  is  a  mistaken,  misguided  person,"  says  he. 
"And  by  the  way,  Professor  McCabe,  there  is  a  fire- 
escape,  I  believe,  which  leads  from  my  office  down 
to  your  back  windows.  Would  it  be  presuming 
too  much  if  I  should  ask  you  to  admit  me  there 
occasionally,  in  the  event  of  my  being — er — pursued 
again?" 

"It  ain't  a  board  bill,  is  it,  Doc?"  says  I. 

"  Nothing  of  the  kind,  I  assure  you,"  says  he. 

"Glad  to  hear  it,"  says  I.  "As  a  rule,  I  don't 
run  no  rock-of-ages  refuge,  but  I  likes  to  be  neigh- 
borly, so  help  yourself." 

We  fixed  it  up  that  way,  and  about  every  so 
often  I'd  see  Doc  Pinphoodle  slidin'  in  the  back 
window,  with  a  worried  look  on  his  face,  and  iron 
rust  on  his  trousers.  He  was  a  quiet  neighbor, 
though — didn't  torture  the  cornet,  or  deal  in  voice 
culture,  or  get  me  to  cash  checks  that  came  back 
with  remarks  in  red  ink  written  on  'em. 

I  was  wonderin'  how  the  Vedic  stunt  was  catchin' 
on,  when  all  of  a  sudden  he  buds  out  in  an  eight- 
dollar  hat,  this  year's  model,  and  begins  to  lug 
around  an  iv'ry-handled  cane. 

"  I'm  glad  they're  comin'  your  way,  Doc,"  says  I. 

"Thanks,"  says  he.    "If  I  can  in  any  measure 


288  SHORTY  McCABE 

repay  some  of  the  many  kindnesses  which  you 
have-" 

"Sponge  it  off/1  says  I,  "Maybe  I'll  want  to 
throw  a  lady  off  the  scent  myself,  some  day." 

A  week  or  so  later  I  misses  him  altogether,  and 
the  janitor  tells  me  he's  paid  up  and  moved.  Well, 
they  come  and  go  like  that,  so  it  don't  do  to  feel 
lonesome;  but  I  had  the  floor  swept  under  the 
couch  reg'lar,  on  a  chance  that  he  might  show  up 
again. 

It  was  along  about  then  that  I  hears  about  the 
bull  pup.  I'd  been  wantin'  to  have  one  out  to 
Primrose  Park — where  I  goes  to  prop  up  the  week- 
end, you  know.  Pinckney  was  tellin'  me  of  a 
friend  of  his  that  owns  a  likely-lookin'  litter  about 
two  months  old,  so  one  Saturday  afternoon  I  starts 
to  hoof  it  over  and  size  'em  up. 

Now  that  was  reg'lar,  wa'n't  it?  You  wouldn't 
think  a  two-eyed  man  like  me  could  go  astray  just 
tryin'  to  pick  out  a  bull  pup,  would  you?  But  look 
what  I  runs  into  I  I'd  gone  about  four  miles  from 
home,  and  was  hittin'  up  a  Daddy  Weston  clip  on 
the  side  path,  when  I  sees  one  of  them  big  bay- 
windowed  bubbles  slidin'  past  like  a  train  of  cars. 
There  was  a  girl  on  the  back  seat  that  looks  kind  of 
natural.  She  sees  me,  too,  shouts  to  Francois  to 
put  on  the  emergency  brake,  and  begins  wavin'  her 
parasol  at  me  to  hurry  on.  It  was  Sadie  Sullivan. 


SHORTY  McCABE  289 

"Hurry  up,  Shorty!  Run!"  she  yells.  "There 
isn't  a  minute  to  lose." 

I  gets  up  on  my  toes  at  that,  and  I  hadn't  no 
more'n  climbed  aboard  before  the  machine  was 
tearin'  up  the  macadam  again. 

"Anybody  dyin',"  says  I,  "or  does  the  bargain 
counter  close  at  five  o'clock?" 

"Aunt  Tillie's  eloping,"  says  she,  "and  if  we 
don't  head  her  off  she'll  marry  an  old  villain  who 
ought  to  be  in  jail." 

"Not  Mr.  Pinckney's  Aunt  Tillie,  the  old  girl 
that  owns  the  big  place  up  near  Blenmont?"  says  I. 

"That's  the  one,"  says  Sadie. 

"  Why  she's  qualified  for  an  old  ladies'  home," 
says  I.  "  You  don't  mean  to  say  she's  got  kittenish 
at  her  age." 

"  There's  no  age  limit  to  that  kind  of  foolishness," 
says  Sadie,  "and  this  looks  like  a  serious  attack. 
We've  got  to  stop  it,  though,  for  I  promised  Pinck- 
ney  I'd  stand  guard  until  he  came  back  from  New- 
port." 

I  hadn't  seen  the  old  girl  myself,  but  I  knew  her 
record,  and  now  I  got  it  revised  to  date.  She'd 
hooked  two  husbands  in  her  time,  but  neither  of 
'em  had  lasted  long.  Then  she  gave  it  up  for  a  spell 
and  it  wa'n't  until  she  was  sixty-five  that  she  begins 
to  wear  rainbow  clothes  again,  and  caper  around 

like  one  of  the  squab  octet.    Lately  she'd  begun 
19 


290  SHORTY  McCABE 

to  show  signs  of  wantin'  to  sit  in  a  shady  corner 
with  a  man. 

Pinckney  had  discouraged  a  bald-headed  minis- 
ter, warned  off  an  old  bachelor,  and  dropped  strong 
hints  to  a  couple  of  widowers  that  took  to  callin' 
frequent  for  afternoon  tea.  Then  a  new  one  had 
showed  up. 

"  He's  a  sticker,  too,"  says  Sadie.  "  I  don't  know 
where  Aunt  Tillie  found  him,  but  Pinckney  says  he's 
been  coming  out  from  the  city  every  other  day  for 
a  couple  of  weeks.  She's  been  meeting  him  at  the 
station  and  taking  him  for  drives.  She  says  he's 
some  sort  of  an  East  Indian  priest,  and  that  he's 
giving  her  lessons  in  a  new  faith  cure  that  she's 
taking  up.  To-day,  though,  after  she'd  gone  off, 
the  housekeeper  found  that  her  trunk  had  been 
smuggled  to  the  station.  Then  a  note  was  picked 
up  in  her  room.  It  said  something  about  meeting 
her  at  the  church  of  St.  Paul's-in-the-Wood,  at 
four-thirty,  and  was  signed,  'Your  darling  Mulli.' 
'  Oh,  dear,  it's  almost  half-past  now!  Can't  you  go 
any  faster,  Fran9ois?" 

I  thought  he  couldn't,  but  he  did.  He  jammed 
the  speed  lever  up  another  notch,  and  in  a  minute 
more  we  were  hittin'  only  the  high  places.  We 
caromed  against  them  red-leather  cushions  like  a 
couple  of  pebbles  in  a  bottle,  and  it  was  a  case  of 
holdin'  on  and  hoping  the  thing  would  stay  right 


SHORTY  McCABE  291 

side  up.  I  hadn't  worked  up  much  enthusiasm 
about  gettin'  to  St.  Paul's-in-the-Wood  before, 
but  I  did  then,  all  right.  Never  was  so  glad  to  see 
a  church  loom  up  as  I  was  that  one. 

"That's  her  carriage  at  the  chapel  door,"  says 
Sadie.  "  Shorty,  we  must  stop  this  thing." 

"It's  out  of  my  line,"  says  I,  "but  I'll  help  all 
I  can." 

We  made  a  break  for  the  front  door  and  butted 
right  in,  just  as  though  they'd  sent  us  cards.  It 
wasn't  very  light  inside,  but  down  at  the  far  end  we 
could  see  a  little  bunch  of  folks  standin'  around  as 
if  they  was  waitin'  for  somethin'  to  happen. 

Sadie  didn't  make  any  false  motions.  She  sailed 
down  the  center  aisle  and  took  Aunt  Tillie  by  the 
arm.  She  was  a  dumpy,  pie-faced  old  girl,  with 
plenty  of  ballast  to  keep  her  shoes  down,  and  a  lot 
of  genuine  store  hair  that  was  puffed  and  waved 
like  the  specimens  you  see  in  the  Sixth-ave.  show 
cases.  She  was  actin'  kind  of  nervous,  and  grinnin' 
a  silly  kind  of  grin,  but  when  she  spots  Sadie  she 
quit  that  and  puts  on  a  look  like  the  hired  girl  wears 
when  she's  been  caught  bein'  kissed  by  the  grocery 
boy. 

"You  haven't  done  it,  have  you?"  says  Sadie. 

"No,"  says  Aunt  Tillie;  "but  it's  going  to  be 
done  just  as  soon  as  the  rector  gets  on  his  other 
coat." 


292  SHORTY  McCABE 

"Now  please  don't,  Mrs.  Winfield,"  says  Sadie, 
gettin'  a  waist  grip  on  the  old  girl,  and  rubbin'  her 
cheek  up  against  her  shoulder  in  that  purry,  coaxin' 
way  she  has.  "  You  know  how  badly  we  should  all 
feel  if  it  didn't  turn  out  well,  and  Pinckney — " 

"  He's  a  meddlesome,  impertinent  young  scamp! " 
says  Aunt  Tillie,  growin'  red  under  the  layers  of 
rice  powder.  "  Haven't  I  a  right  to  marry  without 
consulting  him,  I'd  like  to  know?" 

"Oh,  yes,  of  course,"  says  Sadie,  soothing  her 
down,  "but  Pinckney  says — " 

"  Don't  tell  me  anything  that  he  says,  not  a 
word!"  she  shouts.  "I  won't  listen  to  it.  He  had 
the  impudence  to  suggest  that  my  dear  Mulli  was  a 
— a  corn  doctor,  or  something  like  that." 

"Did  he?"  says  Sadie.  "I  wouldn't  have 
thought  it  of  Pinckney.  Well,  just  to  show  him 
that  he  was  wrong,  I  would  put  this  affair  off  until 
you  can  have  a  regular  church  wedding ;  with  invi- 
tations, and  ushers,  and  pretty  flower  girls.  And 
you  ought  to  have  a  gray-silk  wedding-gown — you'd 
look  perfectly  stunning  in  gray  silk,  you  know. 
Wouldn't  all  that  be  much  nicer  than  running  off 
like  this,  as  though  you  were  ashamed  of  some- 
thing?" 

Say,  it  was  a  slick  game  of  talk  that  Sadie  handed 
out  then,  for  she  was  playin'  for  time.  But  Aunt 
Tillie  was  no  come-on. 


SHORTY  McCABE  293 

"Mulli  doesn't  want  to  wait  another  day,"  says 
she,  "  and  neither  do  I,  so  that  settles  it.  And  here 
comes  the  rector,  now." 

" Looks  like  we'd  played  out  our  hand,  don't  it?" 
I  whispered  to  Sadie. 

"Wait!"  says  she.  "I  want  to  get  a  good  look 
at  the  man." 

He  was  trailin'  along  after  the  minister,  and  it 
wa'n't  until  he  was  within  six  feet  of  me  that  I  saw 
who  it  was. 

"Hello,  Doc!"  says  I.  "So  you're  the  dear 
Mulli,  are  you?" 

He  near  jumped  through  his  collar,  Pinphoodle 
did,  when  he  gets  his  lamps  on  me.  It  only  lasted 
a  minute,  though,  for  he  was  a  quick  recoverer. 

"Why,  professor!"  says  he.  "This  is  an  unex- 
pected pleasure." 

"I  guess  some  of  that's  right,"  says  I. 

And  say,  but  he  was  dressed  for  the  joyful  bride- 
groom part — striped  trousers,  frock  coat,  white 
puff  tie,  and  white  gloves!  He'd  had  a  close  shave 
and  a  shampoo,  and  the  massage  artist  had  rubbed 
out  some  of  the  swellin'  from  under  his  eyes. 
Didn't  look  much  like  the  has-been  that  done 
the  dive  under  the  couch  at  the  Studio. 

"  Well,  well ! "  says  I.  "  This  is  where  the  private 
cinch  comes  in,  eh?  Doc,  you've  got  a  head  like  a 
horse." 


294 


SHORTY  McCABE 


"I  should  think  he'd  be  ashamed  of  himself," 
says  Sadie,  "running  off  with  a  silly  old  woman 
who  might  be  his  mother." 

The  Sullivan  temper  had  got  the  best  of  her. 
After  that  the  deep  lard  was  all  over  the  cook  stove. 
Aunt  Tillie  throws  four  cat-fits  to  the  minute,  and 
lets  loose  on  Sadie  with  all  kinds  of  polite  jabs  that 
she  can  lay  her  tongue  to.  Then  Doc  steps  up,  puts 
a  manly  arm  half-way  round  her  belt  line,  and  lets 
her  weep  on  the  silk  facing  of  his  Sunday  coat. 

By  this  time  the  preacher  was  all  broke  up.  He 
was  a  nice  healthy-lookin'  young  chap,  one  of  the 
strawb'ry-blond  kind,  with  pink  and  white  cheeks, 
and  hair  as  soft  as  a  toy  spaniel's.  It  turns  out  that 
he  was  new  to  the  job,  and  this  was  his  first  call  to 
spiel  off  the  splicin'  service. 

"I  trust,"  says  he,  "that  there  is  nothing — er — 
that  no  one  has  any  valid  objection  to  the  uniting 
of  this  couple?" 

"I  will  convince  you  of  that,"  says  Doc  Pin- 
phoodle,  speakin'  up  brisk  and  cocky,  "  by  putting 
to  this  young  lady  a  few  pertinent  questions." 

Well,  he  did.  As  a  cross-examiner  for  the  defense 
he  was  a  regular  Joe  Choate.  Inside  of  two  minutes 
he'd  made  torn  mosquito  netting  of  Sadie's  kick, 
shown  her  up  for  a  rank  outsider,  and  put  us  both 
through  the  ropes. 

"Now,"  says  he,  with  a  kind  of  calm,  satisfied 


SHORTY  McCABE  295 

I've-swallowed-the-canary  smile,  "we  will  proceed 
with  the  ceremony." 

Sadie  was  near  cryin'  with  the  mad  in  her,  she 
bein'  a  hard  loser  at  any  game.  "You're  an  old 
fraud,  that's  what  you  are!"  she  spits  out.  "And 
you're  just  marrying  Pinckney's  silly  old  aunt  to 
get  her  money." 

But  that  rolls  off  Doc  like  a  damage  suit  off'm  a 
corporation.  He  just  smiles  back  at  her,  and  goes 
to  chirkin'  up  Aunt  Tillie.  Doc  was  it,  and  knew 
where  he  stood.  He  had  us  down  and  out.  In  five 
minutes  more  he'd  have  a  two-hundred-pound  wife 
and  a  fifty-thousand-dollar  income. 

"  It  strikes  me/'  says  he,  over  his  shoulder,  "  that 
if  I  had  got  hold  of  a  fortune  in  the  way  you  got 
yours,  young  woman,  I  wouldn't  make  any  com- 
ments about  mercenary  marriages." 

Well,  say,  up  to  that  time  I  had  a  half-baked  idea 
that  maybe  I  wasn't  called  on  to  block  his  little 
game,  but  when  he  begins  to  rub  it  into  Sadie  I 
sours  on  Doc  right  away.  And  it  always  does  take 
one  or  two  good  punches  to  warm  me  up  to  a  scrap. 
I  begins  to  do  some  swift  thinkin'. 

"  Hold  on  there,  Doc,"  says  I.  "  I'll  give  in  that 
you've  got  our  case  quashed  as  it  stood.  But  may- 
be there's  someone  else  that's  got  an  interest  in 
these  doin's." 

"Ah ! "  says  he.    "And  who  might  that  be?  " 


296  SHORTY  McCABE 

"  Mrs.  Montgomery  Smith,"  says  I. 

It  was  a  chance  shot,  but  it  rung  the  bell.  Doc 
goes  as  limp  as  a  straw  hat  that's  been  hooked  up 
after  a  dip  in  the  bay,  and  his  eyes  took  on  that 
shifty  look  they  had  the  first  time  I  ever  saw  him. 

"Why,"  says  he,  swallowin'  hard,  and  doing  his 
best  to  get  back  the  stiff  front  he'd  been  puttin' 
up — "why,  there's  no  such  person." 

"  No?"  says  I.  "How  about  the  one  that  calls 
you  Monty  and  runs  you  under  the  couch?" 

"It's  a  lie!"  says  he.  " She's  nothing  to  me, 
nothing  at  all." 

"Oh,  well,"  says  I,  "that's  between  you  and  her. 
She  says  different.  Anyway,  she's  come  clear  up 
here  to  put  in  her  bid;  so  it's  no  more'n  fair  to  give 
her  a  show.  I'll  just  bring  her  in." 

As  I  starts  towards  the  front  door  Doc  gives  me 
one  look,  to  see  if  I  mean  business.  Then,  Sadie 
says,  he  turns  the  color  of  pie-crust,  drops  Aunt 
Tillie  as  if  she  was  a  live  wire,  and  jumps  through 
the  back  door  like  he'd  been  kicked  by  a  mule.  I 
got  back  just  in  time  to  see  him  hurdle  a  five-foot 
hedge  without  stirrin'  a  leaf,  and  the  last  glimpse 
we  got  of  him  he  was  headin'  for  a  stretch  of  woods 
up  Connecticut  way. 

"  Looks  like  you'd  just  missed  assistin'  at  a  case 
of  bigamy,"  says  I  to  the  young  preacher,  as  we 
was  bringin'  Aunt  Tillie  out  of  her  faint. 


SHORTY  McCABE  297 

"Shocking!"  says  he.  "Shocking!"  as  he  fans 
himself  with  a  hymn  book.  He  was  takin'  it  hard. 

Aunt  Tillie  wouldn't  speak  to  any  of  us,  and  as 
we  bundled  her  into  her  carriage  and  sent  her  home 
she  looked  as  mad  as  a  settin'  hen  with  her  feet  tied. 

"Shorty,"  says  Sadie,  on  the  way  back,  "that 
was  an  elegant  bluff  you  put  up." 

"  Lucky  my  hand  wa'n't  called,"  says  I.  "  But  it 
was  rough  on  the  preacher  chap,  wa'n't  it?  He  had 
his  mouth  all  made  up  to  marry  some  one.  Blamed 
if  I  didn't  want  to  offer  him  a  job  myself." 

"And  who  would  you  have  picked  out,  Shorty?" 
says  she. 

"Well,"  says  I,  lookin'  her  over  wishful,  "there 
ain't  never  been  but  one  girl  that  I'd  choose  for  a 
side  partner,  and  she's  out  of  my  class  now." 

"Was  her  name  Sullivan  once?"  says  she. 

"It  was,"  says  I. 

She  didn't  say  anything  more  for  a  spell  after 
that,  and  I  didn't;  but  there's  times  when  con- 
versation don't  fit  in.  All  I  know  is  that  you  can 
sit  just  as  close  on  the  back  seat  of  one  of  them  big 
benzine  carts  as  you  can  on  a  parlor  sofa;  and  with 
Sadie  snuggled  up  against  me  I  felt  like  it  was 
always  goin'  to  be  summer,  with  Sousa's  band 
playin'  somewhere  behind  the  rubber  trees. 

First  thing  I  knows  we  fetches  up  at  my  shack  in 
Primrose  Park,  and  I  was  standin'  on  the  horse 


298  SHORTY  McCABE 

block,  alongside  the  bubble.  Sadie'd  dropped  both 
hands  on  my  shoulders  and  was  turnin'  them  eyes 
of  hers  on  me  at  close  range.  Francois  was  lookin' 
straight  ahead,  and  there  wasn't  anyone  in  sight. 
So  I  just  took  a  good  look  into  that  pair  of  Irish 
blues. 

"What  a  chump  you  are,  Shorty!"  she  whispers. 

"Ah,  quit  your  kiddin',"  says  I.  But  I  didn't 
make  any  move,  and  she  didn't. 

"Well,  good-by,"  says  she,  lettin'  out  a  long 
breath. 

"By-by,  Sadie,"  says  I,  and  off  she  goes. 

Say,  I  don't  know  how  it  was,  but  I've  beenfeelin' 
ever  since  that  I'd  missed  some  thin'  that  was 
comin'  to  me.  Maybe  it  was  that  bull  pup  I  forgot 
to  buy. 


CHAPTER  XV 

FLAG  it,  now,  and  I'll  say  it  for  you.  Yes,  you 
read  about  it  in  the  papers,  and  says  you:  "Is  it 
all  so?"  Well,  some  of  it  was,  and  some  of  it 
wasn't.  But  what  do  you  expect?  No  two  of  the 
crowd  would  tell  it  the  same  way,  if  they  was  put 
on  the  stand  the  next  minute.  Here's  the  way  it 
looked  from  where  I  stood,  though;  and  I  was 
some  close,  waVt  I? 

You  see,  after  I  woke  up  from  that  last  trance,  I 
gets  to  thinkin'  about  Sadie,  and  Miriam,  and  all 
them  false  alarms  I've  been  ringin'  in;  and,  says  I 
to  myself:  "Shorty,  if  I  couldn't  make  a  better 
showin'  than  that,  I'd  quit  the  game."  So  I  quits. 
I  chases  myself  back  to  town  for  good,  says  hello 
to  all  the  boys,  and  tells  Swif ty  Joe,  if  he  sees  me 
makin'  another  move  towards  the  country,  to 
heave  a  sand  bag  at  me. 

Not  that  there  was  any  loud  call  for  me  to  tend 
out  so  strict  on  the  physical  culture  game.  I'd 
been  kind  of  easin'  up  on  that  lately,  and  dippin' 
into  outside  things;  and  it  was  them  I  needed 
to  keep  closer  track  of.  You  know  I've  got  a  couple 
of  flat  houses  up  on  the  West  side,  and  if  you  let 
them  agents  run  things  their  own  way  you'll  be 


300  SHORTY  McCABE 

makin'  almost  enough  to  buy  new  hall  carpets  once 
a  year. 

Then  there  was  ripe  chances  I  was  afraid  of 
missin'.  You  see,  knockin'  around  so  much  with 
the  fat  wads,  I  often  sees  spots  where  a  few  dollars 
could  be  planted  right.  Sometimes  it's  a  hunch 
on  the  market,  and  then  again  it's  a  straight  steer 
on  a  slice  of  foot  front  that's  goin'  cheap.  I  do  a 
lot  of  dicker  in'  that  way. 

Well,  I'd  just  pushed  through  a  deal  that  leaves 
me  considerable  on  velvet,  and  I  was  feelin'  kind 
of  flush  and  sassy,  when  Mr.  Ogden  calls  me  up, 
and  wants  to  know  if  I  can  make  use  of  a  gilt  edged 
bargain. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  says  I.  "What's  it  look 
like?" 

"It's  The  Toreador,"  says  he. 

"Sounds  good,"  says  I.    "How  much?" 

"Cost  me  forty  thousand  two  years  ago,"  says 
he,  "  but  I'm  turning  it  over  for  twenty-five  to  the 
first  bidder." 

Well,  say,  when  old  man  Ogden  slings  cold 
figures  at  you  like  that,  you  can  gamble  that  he's 
talkin'  straight. 

"I'm  it,  then,"  says  I.  "Fifteen  down,  ten  on 
mortgage." 

" That  suits  me,"  says  he.  "  I'll  have  the  papers 
made  out  to-day." 


SHORTY  McCABE  301 

"And  say,"  says  I,  "what  is  this  Toreador,  any- 
way; a  race  horse,  or  an  elevator  apartment?  " 

Would  you  guess  it?  He'd  hung  up  the  receiver. 
That's  what  I  got  for  bein'  sporty.  But  I  wa'n't 
goin'  to  renig  at  that  stage.  I  fills  out  me  little 
blue  check  and  sends  her  in,  and  that  night  I  goes 
to  bed  without  knowin'  what  it  is  that  I've  passed 
up  my  coin  for. 

It  must  have  been  near  noon  the  next  day,  for 
I'd  written  a  letter  and  got  my  check  book  stubs 
added  up  so  they  come  within  two  or  three  hundred 
of  what  the  bank  folks  made  it,  when  a  footman 
in  white  panties  and  a  plum  colored  coat  drifts 
through  the  Studio  door. 

"Is  this  Professor  McCabe,  sir?"  says  he. 

"Yep,"  says  I. 

"There's  a  lady  below,  sir,"  says  he.  "Can  she 
come  up?" 

"It  ain't  reg'lar,"  says  I,  "but  I  s'pose  there's 
no  dodgin'  her.  Tell  her  to  come  ahead." 

Say,  I  wa'n't  just  fixed  up  for  receivin'  carriage 
comp'ny.  When  I  writes  and  figures  I  gets  more 
mussed  up  than  as  if  I'd  been  in  a  free-for-all. 
I'd  shed  my  coat  on  one  chair,  my  vest  on  another, 
slipped  off  my  suspenders,  rumpled  my  hair,  and 
got  ink  on  me  in  seventeen  places.  But  I  didn't 
have  sense  enough  to  say  I  was  out. 

In  a  minute  or  so  there  was  a  click-click  on  the 


302  SHORTY  McCABE 

stairs,  I  gets  a  whiff  of  1'Issoir  Danube,  and  in 
comes  a  veiled  lady.  She  was  a  brandied  peach; 
from  the  outside  lines,  anyway.  Them  clothes  of 
hers  couldn't  have  left  Paris  more'n  a  month  be- 
fore, and  they  clung  to  her  like  a  wet  undershirt 
to  a  fat  man.  And  if  you  had  any  doubts  as  to 
whether  or  no  she  had  the  goods,  all  you  had  to  do 
was  to  squint  at  the  big  amethyst  in  the  handle  of 
the  gold  lorgnette  she  wore  around  her  neck.  For 
a  Felix-Tiffany  combination,  she  was  it.  You've 
seen  women  of  that  kind — reg'lar  walkin'  expense 
accounts. 

"So  you  are  Shorty  McCabe,  are  you?"  says 
she,  givin'  me  a  customs  inspector  look-over,  and 
kind  of  sniffm'. 

"Sorry  I  don't  suit,"  says  I. 

" How  odd! "  says  she.  " I  must  make  a  note  of 
that." 

"Help  yourself,"  says  I.  "Is  there  anything 
else?" 

"Is  it  true,"  says  she,  "that  you  have  bought 
The  Toreador?  " 

"Who's  been  givin'  you  that?"  says  I,  prickin' 
up  my  ears. 

"Mr.  Ogden,"  says  she. 

"He's  an  authority,"  says  I,  "and  what  he  says 
along  that  line  I  don't  dispute." 

"Then  you  have  bought  it?"  says  she.     "How 


SHORTY  McCABE  303 

exasperating!  I  was  going  to  get  Mr.  Ogden  to  let 
me  have  The  Toreador  this  week." 

"The  whole  of  it?"  says  I. 

"Why,  of  course,"  says  she. 

"Gee!"  thinks  I.  "It  can't  be  an  apartment 
house,  then.  Maybe  it's  an  oil  paintin',  or  a  parlor 


car." 


"  But  there! "  she  goes  on.  " I  suppose  you  only 
bought  it  as  a  speculation.  Now  what  is  your 
price  for  next  week?" 

Say,  for  the  love  of  Pete,  I  couldn't  tell  what  it 
was  gave  me  a  grouch.  Maybe  it  was  only  the 
off-hand  way  she  threw  it  out,  or  the  snippy  chin- 
toss  that  goes  with  it.  But  I  felt  like  I'd  been 
stroked  with  a  piece  of  sand  paper. 

"  It's  too  bad,"  says  I,  "  but  you've  made  a  wrong 
guess.  I'm  usin'  The  Toreador  next  week  myself." 

"  You!"  says  she,  and  through  the  gauze  curtain 
I  could  see  her  hump  her  eyebrows. 

That  finished  the  job.  Even  if  The  Toreador 
turned  out  to  be  a  new  opera  house  or  a  tourin' 
balloon,  I  was  goin'  to  keep  it  busy  for  the  next 
seven  days. 

"Why  not  me?  "I  says. 

"All  alone?"  says  she. 

Well,  I  didn't  know  where  it  would  land  me,  but 
Iwa'n't  goin'  to  have  her  tag  me  for  a  solitaire 
spender. 


304  SHORTY  McCABE 

"Not  much,"  says  I.  "I  was  just  makin'  up 
my  list.  How  do  you  spell  Mrs.  Twombley-Crane's 
last  name — with  a  k?" 

" Really! "  says  she.  " Do  you  mean  to  say  that 
she  is  to  be  one  of  your  guests?  Then  you  must  be 
going  just  where  I'd  planned  to  go — to  the  Newport 
evolutions?" 

"Sure  thing,"  says  I.  I'd  heard  of  their  havin' 
all  kinds  of  fool  doin's  at  Newport,  but  evolutions 
wa'n't  one  of  'em.  The  bluff  had  to  be  made  good, 
though. 

The  lady  pushes  up  her  mosquito  nettin'  drop, 
like  she  wanted  to  see  if  I  was  unwindin'  the  string 
ball  or  not,  and  then  for  a  minute  she  taps  her  chin 
with  them  foldin'  eyeglasses.  I  wanted  to  sing  out 
to  her  that  she'd  dent  the  enamel  if  she  didn't 
quit  bein'  so  careless,  but  I  held  in.  Say,  what's 
the  use  eatin'  carrots  and  takin'  buttermilk  baths, 
when  you  can  have  a  mercerized  complexion  like 
that  laid  on  at  the  shop? 

All  of  a  sudden  she  flashes  up  a  little  silver  case, 
and  pushes  out  a  visitin'  card. 

"There's  my  name  and  address,"  says  she.  "If 
you  should  change  your  mind  about  using  The 
Toreador,  you  may  telephone  me;  and  I  hope  you 
will." 

"Oh!"  says  I,  spellin'  out  the  old  English  letters. 
"I've  heard  Pinckney  speak  of  you.  Well,  say, 


SHORTY  McCABE  305 

seein'  as  you're  so  anxious,  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll 
do;  I'll  just  put  you  down  for  an  in-vite.  How 
does  that  hit  you?" 

I  had  an  idea  she  might  blow  up,  at  that.  But 
say,  there  was  nothin'  of  the  kind. 

"Why,"  says  she,  "I'm  not  sure  but  that  would 
be  quite  a  novelty.  Yes,  you  may  count  on  me. 
Good  day,"  and  she  was  gone  without  so  much  as 
a  "thank  you  kindly." 

When  I  came  to,  and  had  sized  the  thing  all  up, 
it  looked  like  I'd  got  in  over  my  head.  I  was  due 
to  stand  for  some  kind  of  a  racket,  but  whether  it 
was  a  picnic,  or  a  surprise  party,  I  didn't  know. 
What  I  wanted  just  then  was  information,  and  for 
certain  kinds  of  knowledge  there's  nobody  like 
Pinckney. 

I  was  dead  lucky  to  locate  him,  too;  but  I  took  a 
chance  on  his  bein'  in  town,  so  I  found  him  at  his 
special  corner  table  in  the  palm  room,  just  lookin' 
a  dry  Martini  in  the  face. 

"Hello,  Shorty!"  says  he.  "Haven't  lunched 
yet,  have  you?  Join  me." 

"I  will,"  says  I,  "if  you'll  answer  me  two  ques- 
tions. First  off,  what  is  it  that  Mr.  Ogden  owns 
that  he  calls  The  Toreador?" 

"  Why,"  says  Pinckney,  "  that's  his  steam  yacht." 

"  Steam  yacht ! "  says  I,  gettin'  a  good  grip  on  the 

chair,  to  keep  from  falling  out.    "And  me  dead 
20 


306  SHORTY  McCABE 

sure  it  was  a  bunch  of  six-room-and-baths!  Oh, 
well,  let  that  pass.  What's  done  is  done.  Now 
what's  this  evolution  stunt  they're  pullin'  off  up  at 
Newport  next  week?" 

"  The  naval  evolutions,  of  course,"  says  Pinckney. 
"You  should  read  the  newspapers,  Shorty." 

"I  do,"  says  I,  "but  I  didn't  see  a  word  about 
it  on  the  sportin'  page." 

He  gave  me  the  program,  though ;  how  they  was 
goin'  to  have  a  sham  torpedo  battle,  windin'  up 
with  a  grand  illumination  of  the  fleet. 

"  You  ought  to  run  up  and  see  it,"  says  he. 

"It  looks  like  I  had  to,"  says  I. 

"But  what  about  The  Toreador?"  says  he. 

"No thin' much, "says  I, — "only I've  bought  the 
blamed  thing." 

It  was  Pinckney 's  turn  to  grow  bug-eyed;  but 
when  I'd  told  him  all  about  the  deal,  and  how  the 
veiled  lady  had  stung  me  into  sayin'  what  I  had, 
he's  as  pleased  as  if  he'd  been  readin'  the  joke  col- 
umn. 

"Shorty,"  says  he,  "you're  a  genius.  Why, 
that's  the  very  thing  to  do.  Get  together  your 
party,  steam  up  there,  anchor  in  the  harbor,  and 
see  the  show.  It's  deuced  good  form,  you  know." 

"  That's  all  I  want,"  says  I.  "  Just  so  long's  I'm 
sure  I'm  in  good  form,  I'm  happy.  But  say,  I 
wouldn't  dare  tackle  it  unless  you  went  along." 


SHORTY  McCABE  307 

I  found  out  later  that  Pinckney'd  turned  down 
no  less  than  three  parties  of  that  kind,  but  when  I 
puts  it  up  to  him,  he  never  fiddles  short  at  all. 

"Why,  I'd  be  delighted,"  says  he. 

With  that  we  finishes  our  cold  fried  egg  salad, 
or  whatever  fancy  dish  it  was  we  had  on  the  plat- 
ter, and  then  we  pikes  off  to  the  pier  where  he  says 
the  yacht's  tied  up.  And  say,  she  was  somethin' 
of  a  boat.  She  made  that  Dixie  Girl,  that  Woodie 
and  me  brought  the  Incubator  kids  down  in,  look 
like  a  canoe.  She  was  white  all  over,  except  for  a 
gold  streak  around  her,  and  a  couple  of  dinky 
yellow  masts. 

I  didn't  go  down  stairs.  We  plants  ourselves 
in  some  green  cushioned  easy  chairs  under  the  back 
stoop  awnin',  and  I  sends  one  of  the  white-wing 
hired  hands  after  the  conductor. 

"It's  the  sailing  master  you  want,"  says  Pinck- 
ney. 

"Well,  bring  him  along,  too,"  says  I. 

But  there  was  only  the  one.  He  was  a  solid 
built,  quiet  spoken  chap,  with  a  full  set  of  red 
whiskers  and  a  state  of  Maine  accent.  He  said  his 
name  was  Bassett,  and  that  he  was  just  packin' 
his  things  to  go  ashore,  havin'  heard  that  the  boat 
had  been  sold. 

"The  shore'll  be  there  next  month,"  says  I. 
"  What'll  you  take  to  stay  on  the  job?  " 


308  SHORTY  McCABE 

Well,  he  didn't  want  no  iron  worker's  wages, 
bein'  content  with  a  captain's  salary,  so  I  tells  him 
to  take  hold  right  where  he  left  off  and  tell  the  rest 
of  the  gang  they  could  do  the  same.  So  inside  of 
half  an  hour  I  has  a  couple  of  dozen  men  on  the  pay 
roll. 

" Gee! "  says  I  to  Pinckney,  "  I'm  glad  the  yacht- 
in'  season's  most  over  when  I  begin;  if  it  wa'n't 
I'm  thinkin'  I'd  have  to  go  out  nights  with  a  jimmy." 

But  Pinckney's  busy  with  his  silver  pencil, 
writin'  down  names. 

"There!"  says  he.  "I've  thought  of  a  dozen 
nice  people  that  I'm  sure  of,  and  perhaps  I'll  re- 
member a  few  more  in  the  mean  time." 

"Say,"  says  I,  "have  you  got  the  Twombley- 
Cranes  and  Sadie  on  that  list?" 

"Oh,  certainly,"  says  he,  "especially  Sadie." 
And  then  he  grins. 

Well,  for  about  four  days  I'm  the  busiest  man 
out  of  a  job  in  New  York.  I  carries  a  bunch  of 
railroad  stocks  on  margin,  trades  off  some  Bronx 
buildin'  lots  for  a  cold  water  tenement,  and 
unloads  a  street  openin'  contract  that  I  bought  off'm 
a  Tammany  Hall  man.  Every  time  I  thinks  of 
that  steam  yacht,  with  all  them  hands  burnin'  up 
my  money,  I  goes  out  and  does  some  more  hustlin'. 
Say,  there's  nothin'  like  needin'  the  dough,  for 
keepin'  a  feller  up  on  his  toes,  is  there?  And  when 


SHORTY  McCABE  300 

the  time  came  to  knock  off,  and  I'd  reckoned  up 
how  much  I  was  to  the  good,  I  feels  like  Johnny 
Gates  after  he's  cashed  his  chips. 

Yes,  indeed,  I  was  a  gay  boy  as  I  goes  aboard 
The  Toreador  and  waits  for  the  crowd  to  come 
along.  I'd  made  myself  a  present  of  a  white 
flannel  suit  and  a  Willie  Collier  yachtin'  cap, 
and  if  there' d  been  an  orchestra  down  front  I 
could  have  done  a  yo-ho-ho  baritone  solo  right 
off  the  reel. 

Pinckney  shows  up  in  good  season,  and  he'd 
fetched  his  people,  all  right.  There  was  a  string  of 
tourin'  cars  and  carriages  half  a  block  long.  They 
was  all  friends  of  mine,  too;  from  Sadie  to  the  little 
old  bishop.  And  they  was  nice,  decent  folks. 
Maybe  they  don't  have  their  pictures  printed  in  the 
Sunday  editions  as  often  as  some,  but  they're  ice 
cutters,  just  the  same.  They  all  said  it  was  lovely 
of  me  to  remember  'em. 

"Ah,  put  it  away!"  says  I.  "You  folks  has 
been  bio  win'  me,  off 'n  on  for  a  year,  and  this  is  my 
first  set-up.  I  ain't  wise  to  the  way  things  ought  to 
be  done  on  one  of  these  boudoir  boats,  but  I  wants 
everyone  to  be  happy.  Don't  wait  for  the  Who- 
wants-the-waiter  call,  but  just  act  like  you  was  all 
star  boarders.  Everything  in  sight  is  yours,  from 
the  wicker  chairs  on  deck,  to  what's  in  the  ice  box 
below.  And  I  want  to  say  right  here  that  I'm 


310  SHORTY  McCABE 

mighty  glad  you've  come.  Now,  Mr.  Bassett,  I 
guess  you  can  tie  her  loose." 

Honest,  that  was  the  first  speech  I  ever  shot  off, 
in  or  out  of  the  ring,  but  it  seemed  to  go.  They 
was  all  pattin'  me  on  the  back,  and  givin'  me  the 
grand  jolly,  when  a  cab  comes  down  the  pier  on  the 
jump,  someone  waves  a  red  parasol,  and  out  floats 
the  veiled  lady,  with  a  maid.  I'd  sent  her  an 
invite,  just  as  I  said  I  would,  but  I  never  thought 
she'd  have  the  front  to  take  it  up. 

"We  came  near  missin'  you,"  says  I,  steppin'  up 
to  the  gang  plank. 

But  say,  she  was  so  busy  shakin'  hands  and 
callin'  the  rest  of  'em  by  their  front  names,  that  she 
didn't  see  me  at  all.  It  was  that  way  all  day  long, 
while  we  was  goin'  up  the  Sound.  She  cornered 
almost  everyone  else,  and  chinned  to  'em  real 
earnest  about  somethin'  or  other,  but  I  never 
seemed  to  get  in  range.  Well,  I  was  havin'  too 
good  a  time  to  feel  cut  up  about  it,  but  I  couldn't 
help  bein'  curious. 

It  wa'n't  until  dinner  time  that  I  got  a  line  on 
her.  Say,  she  was  a  converser.  No  matter  what 
was  opened  up,  she  heard  her  cue.  And  knock! 
Why,  she  had  a  tack  hammer  in  each  hand.  They 
was  cute,  spiteful  little  taps,  that  made  you  snicker 
first,  and  then  you  got  ashamed  of  yourself  for 
doin'  it. 


SHORTY  McCABE  311 

"Ain't  she  got  any  friends  besides  what's  here?'* 
says  I  to  Sadie,  after  we'd  got  through  and  gone  up 
front  by  ourselves  to  see  the  moon  rise. 

"  I'm  not  so  sure  about  even  these,"  says  Sadie. 

"  Then  why  didn't  someone  cut  in  with  a  come- 
back?" says  I. 

"It  isn't  exactly  safe,"  says  she. 

"Oh!  "says  I.  "She's  that  kind,  is  she?  You'd 
think  from  her  talk  that  she  knew  only  two  sorts  of 
women:  them  that  had  been  divorced,  and  them 
that  ought  to  be." 

"I'm  afraid  that's  her  specialty,"  says  Sadie. 

"  Sort  of  a  lady  muck-raker,  eh?  "  says  I.  "  Well 
I  hope  all  she  says  ain't  so.  How  about  it?  " 

Well,  that  was  the  beginnin'  of  a  heart  to  heart 
talk  that  lasted  for  a  good  many  miles.  Somehow 
Sadie  and  I'd  never  had  a  real  quiet  chance  like 
that  before,  and  it  came  out  that  we  had  a  lot  to 
say  to  each  other.  I  don't  know  how  it  was,  but 
the  rest  of  'em  seemed  to  let  us  alone.  Some  was 
back  under  the  awnin'  and  others  was  down  stairs, 
playin'  whist.  There  was  singin'  too,  but  we  could- 
n't make  out  just  who  was  doin'  it,  and  didn't 
care  a  whole  lot. 

Anyway,  it  was  the  bulliest  ride  I  ever  had. 
The  moon  come  up  over  Long  Island,  as  big  as  a 
bill  board  and  as  yellow  as  a  chorus  girl's  hair; 
the  air  was  kind  of  soft  and  warm,  like  you  gets  it 


3U  SHORTY  McCABE 

in  the  front  room  of  a  Turkish  bath  place;  and 
there  wa'n't  anything  on  either  side  nearer'n  the 
shore  lights,  way  off  in  the  dark.  It  wa'n't  any 
time  for  thinkin'  hard  of  anyone,  so  we  agrees  that 
the  lady  muck-raker  must  have  been  born  with  a 
bad  taste  in  her  mouth  and  can't  help  it,  lettin'  her 
slide  at  that. 

I  forgot  what  it  was  we  did  talk  about.  It  was 
each  other  mostly,  I  guess.  You  can  do  that  when 
you've  known  anyone  as  long  as  we  had;  and  it's 
a  comfort,  once  in  a  while. 

After  a  bit,  though,  we  didn't  say  much  of 
any  thing.  I  was  just  lookin'  at  Sadie.  And 
say,  I've  seen  her  when  I  thought  she  looked 
mighty  nice,  but  I'd  never  got  just  that  view  of 
her  before,  with  the  moon  kind  of  touchin'  up  her 
red  hair,  and  her  cheeks  and  neck  lookin'  like 
white  satin. 

She  has  a  way,  too,  of  starin'  off  at  nothin'  at  all, 
sometimes,  and  then  there's  a  look  in  her  eyes,  and 
a  little  twist  to  her  mouth  corners,  that  just  sets  me 
tinglin'  all  over  with  the  wanthV  to  put  me  arm 
around  her  and  tell  her  that  no  matter  who  else 
goes  back  on  her,  there'll  always  be  Shorty  McCabe 
to  fall  back  on.  It  wa'n't  anything  new  or  sudden 
for  me.  I'd  felt  like  that  many  a  time,  and  as  far 
back  as  when  her  mother  ran  a  prune  dispensary 
next  door  to  my  house,  and  she  an'  I  used  to  sit 


SHORTY  McCABE  313 

on  the  front  steps  after  supper.  She'd  have  spells 
of  starin'  that  way  then,  'choppin'  off  a  laugh 
in  the  middle  to  do  it,  and  maybe  finishin'  up 
with  a  giggle.  I  guess  that's  only  the  Irish  in  her, 
but  it  always  caught  me. 

She  must  have  been  lookin'  that  way  then,  for 
the  first  thing  I  knows  I'd  reached  out  and  pulled 
her  up  close.  She  never  kicks,  but  just  snuggles 
her  head  down  on  my  shoulder,  with  them  blue 
eyes  turned  so  I  could  look  way  down  into  'em.  At 
that  I  draws  a  deep  breath. 

"Sadie,"  says  I,  husky  like,  "you're  the  best 
ever!" 

She  only  smiles,  kind  of  sober,  but  kind  of  con- 
tented, too. 

"And  if  I  had  the  nerve,"  says  I,  "I'd  ask  you 
to  be  Mrs.  Shorty  McCabe." 

"It's  too  bad  you've  lost  your  nerve  so  sudden," 
says  she. 

"Wha-a-at!"  says  I.  "Will  you,  Sadie;  will 
you?" 

"  Silly ! "  says  she.    "  Of  course  I  will." 

"  Bless  the  saints !"  says  I.    "  When? " 

"Any  time,  Shorty,"  says  she.  "You've  been 
long  enough  about  it,  goodness  knows." 

Well  say!  You  talk  about  your  whirlwind 
finishes!  I  guess  the  crowd  that  was  bunched 
there  in  the  cabin,  sayin'  good  night,  must  have 


3H  SHORTY  McCABE 

thought  I'd  gone  clear  off  my  pivot,  the  way  I 
comes  down  the  stairs. 

"  Where's  the  bishop?"  says  I. 

"Right  here,  my  boy,"  says  he.  "What's  the 
matter?" 

"Matter?"  says  I.  "Why,  it's  the  greatest 
thing  ever  happened,  and  nobody  to  it.  Folks," 
I  says,  "if  the  bishop  is  willin',  and  hasn't  forgot 
his  lines,  there's  goin'  to  be  a  weddin'  take  place  right 
here  in  the  main  tent  inside  of  fifteen  minutes. 
Whoop-e-e ! "  I  yells.  "  Sadie's  said  she  would ! " 

That's  the  way  we  did  it,  too;  and  for  a  short 
notice  affair,  it  was  done  in  style ;  even  to  a  weddin' 
march  that  someone  feeds  into  the  pianola  and  sets 
goin'.  Pinckney  digs  up  a  ring,  and  the  bishop 
gives  us  the  nicest  little  off-hand  talk  you  ever 
listens  to.  I  blushes,  and  Sadie  blushes,  and  Mrs. 
Twombley-Crane  hugs  both  of  us  when  it's  over. 
Then  I  has  the  steward  lug  up  a  lot  of  cold  bottles 
and  I  breaks  a  ten  year  drouth  with  a  whole  glass 
of  fizz  water. 

Right  in  the  middle  of  the  toast  the  sailin'  master 
shows  up  on  the  stairs  and  says:  "We're  just 
makin'  the  harbor,  sir." 

"Forget  it,  Bassett,"  says  I.  "I  want  you  to 
drink  to  the  health  of  Mrs.  McCabe." 

And  when  he  hears  what's  been  goin'  on,  he's 
the  most  flabbergasted  sailor  man  I  ever  saw. 


SHORTY  McCABE  315 

After  that  we  all  has  to  go  up  and  take  a  look  at 
Newport  and  the  warships,  but  they  was  all  as 
black  and  quiet  as  a  side  street  in  Brooklyn  after 
ten  o'clock. 

"  Say,  it's  a  shame  all  them  folks  ain't  in  on  this," 
says  I.  "  Bassett,  can't  you  make  a  little  noise, 
just  to  let  'em  know  we're  celebratin' ?  " 

Bassett  thought  he  could.  He  hadn't  made  any 
mistake,  either.  In  two  shakes  we  had  all  the  lights 
aboard  turned  on,  and  skyrockets  whizzin'  up  as 
fast  as  they  could  be  touched  off. 

Did  we  wake  up  them  warships?  Well,  rather. 
First  we  hears  a  lot  of  dinner  gongs  goin'  off. 
Then  colored  lanterns  was  sent  up,  whistles  blew, 
bugles  bugled,  and  inside  of  three  minutes  by  the 
watch  there  was  guns  bang-bangin'  away  like  it 
was  the  Fourth  of  July. 

" Great  Scott!"  says  Pinckney,  "I  never  knew 
before  that  the  United  States  navy  would  turn  out 
in  the  middle  of  the  night  to  salute  a|private  yacht." 

"  It  depends  on  who  owns  the  yacht.  Eh,  Sadie?" 
says  I. 

By  the  time  the  guns  got  through  bangin'  we  had 
a  dozen  search-lights  turned  on  us,  and  a  strong 
lunged  gent  on  the  nearest  warship  was  yellhY 
things  at  us  through  a  megaphone. 

"  He  wants  to  know,  sir,"  says  Bassett,  "  if  we've 
got  the  Secretary  of  the  Navy  on  board," 


316  SHORTY  McCABE 

"Tell  him  not  guilty,"  says  I,  and  Bassett  did. 

That  didn't  satisfy  Mr.  Officer  though.  "Then 
why  in  thunder/'  says  he,  "do  you  make  such  a 
fuss  coming  into  the  harbor  at  this  time  of  night?" 

"  Because  I've  just  been  gettin'  married,"  says  I, 
in  my  Bosco  voice. 

"And  who  the  blazes  are  you?"  says  he. 

"Can't  you  guess?"  says  I.  "I'm  Shorty  Mc- 
Cabe." 

"Oh!"  says  he,  and  you  could  hear  the  ha-ha's 
come  across  the  water  from  all  along  the  line.  There 
was  a  wait  for  a  minute,  and  then  he  hails  again. 
"Ahoy,  Shorty  McCabe ! "  says  he.  "  The  Commo- 
dore presents  his  compliments  and  says  he  hopes 
you  liked  your  wedding  salute;  and  if  you  don't 
mind,  the  gun  crews  want  to  give  three  cheers  for 
Mrs.  McCabe." 

So  Sadie  and  I  stands  up  by  the  rail,  with  more 
lime  light  on  us  than  we  ever  had  before  or  since, 
and  about  six  hundred  Jackies  gives  us  their  col- 
lege cry.  There  wa'n't  anything  slow  about  that 
as  a  send  off  for  a  weddin'  tour,  was  there?  But 
then,  as  I  says  to  Sadie :  "  Look  who  we  are." 

And  say,  if  you'll  be  on  the  dock  when  we  come 
back  from  Bar  Harbor,  we'll  take  you  along  down 
to  Old  Point  with  us.  Eh?  Think  it  over. 


IB  32658 


912746 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


